


Black in the Sky

by threewick



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blackwater AU, Canon compliant-ish, F/M, Vague references to rape/assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 15:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 51,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18968137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewick/pseuds/threewick
Summary: He turned from her, footsteps heavy on the floor. The plates of his metal knocked against one another like snapping jaws. Sansa was thinking a very many things at once - still clutching the doll from her father, still staring with desperate wonder at the Hound - and then, as the door creaked open, she found her voice.“Take me with you.”





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa was numb.

The night had disintegrated around her into a carousel of her deepest fears - Lannisters on all sides, Ser Ilyn Payne’s ugly face, war. Death throwing itself against the fortifications. Her king, somehow still alive. Rape and ruin edging closer, the promise of a slow and terrible end.

Even as she did her best to keep it at bay - barring the door, sealing herself in - green wildfire bloomed in the distance, consuming ships and men and hope.

And Sansa stood, her spine stacked straight and her eyes bright with numb panic, clutching a doll.

She could hear her father’s voice more clearly than ever - the cajoling pride as he’d told her, ‘the same dollmaker makes all of Princess Myrcella’s toys.’ Her own ungrateful response echoed in her head as though carried back through time across the burning Blackwater. Shame burned her cheeks. She had been so despicable, so childish, and now she would die, here, as justice from the gods. Her fingers tightened on the doll, her knuckles blanching.

“The lady is starting to panic.”

The rasping voice startled her and for a moment, Sansa thought she had imagined it - her blood was pounding in her ears, the distant clang of steel and screams reverberating in her skull. But when she turned, he was there, cloaked in shadow and the scent of sulfur, his hair hanging lank in his ruined face. 

The Hound.

King Joffrey’s sworn shield; a Lannister lapdog. She should fear him; hate him, perhaps. But as she stared at his dark silhouette, she felt nothing but lingering, months-old shame.

When she found her voice it stuck, thin and high, in her dry throat.

“What are you doing here?”

There was another smell, too, one she had become intimately familiar with since becoming the king’s plaything. It was layered beneath his thick cologne of sweat and fire, but she knew it all the same, could see the dark of it matting his stringy hair: blood.

“Not here for long.” A pause. “I’m going.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed.

  
“Where?”

He jerked his chin, exposing the marred half of his face to the flickering light from her windows. Bright green flared and washed it in a sickly glow.

“Someplace that isn’t burning,” he growled, the sound of his aggression scraping like fingernails against the knobs of her spine. “North, might be.” He paused, his eyes flickering up to hers, some of his feared firelight burning in them. “Could be.”

Sansa swallowed reflexively, trying not to dream, or hope. Trying to remember that wherever she saw opportunity - a chance for peace, or happiness, or escape - the Lannisters saw only another way to crush her, to throttle her black and blue until she was passive and spiritless once more.

“What of the king?” she said, meekly trying to point out the gaping wounds of his plan.

“He can die just fine on his own,” the Hound rasped, taking a swig of his wineskin. Sansa exhaled in a sharp stab. It was only that that he looked up at her fully, his dark, hateful eyes sweeping across her face, and he said what she’d feared he might - what she’d hoped he might -

  
“I can take you with me. Take you to Winterfell.”

He heaved his great, powerful body up, and towered above her, looking like a battle-bloody nightmare. Sansa swallowed again, staring up at him with bright uncertainty.

“I’ll keep you safe.”

Safe. 

_ Safe _ . 

Safety was a farce. Sansa knew this now. Her father had believed in the safety of vows, of friends; the safety in honor. This belief had gotten him murdered, mutilated. Speared through the neck after death, turned into a bauble to torment and terrify. Her bottom lip tightened as she stared at the Hound, at this ferocious beast who had been compassionate and cold to her in turns.

  
“ Do you want to go home?”

Sansa answered before the sob she was holding in could crack open her ribs.

  
“I’ll be safe here. Stannis won’t hurt me.”

The Hound moved quickly and the fear Sansa’d been numb to broke across her face. He lurched forward, massive and terrifying, to seize her by the wrists. Her fingers tightened on the doll as she prepared for the blow; wine was thick on his breath.

But the blow didn’t come.

“Look at me,” the Hound demanded, his words a growl once more. Sansa’s eyes were overbright with panic and indecision as she did.

“Stannis is a killer. The Lannisters, are killers. Your father was a killer. Your brother is a killer. Your sons -” 

The very idea of such a thing, of golden-haired babies that bore Joffrey’s surname, spiteful, horrible little monsters who wore infant sweetness like a mask, made Sansa’s throat burn.

“-Will be killers someday. The world is built by killers.”

The Hound paused, sniffing as he collected himself. Swallowing. Continuing in that same guttural growl.

“So you better get used to looking at them.”

He was trying to scare her; to intimidate her. But as he did, something dawned on her - something that she’d always known, probably, even as he’d stood by, wordless and imposing, as others had drawn her blood. A truth that gave her the strength to lift her chin, and meet his eye with calm defiance.

“You won’t hurt me,” Sansa told him, a faint wonder to the words. And some of the menace seemed to leave Sandor Clegane’s shoulders, and some of the meanness seemed to ebb from his uneven eyes. And he told her, on an exhale,

“No, little bird. I won’t hurt you.”

He turned from her, footsteps heavy on the floor. The plates of his metal knocked against one another like snapping jaws. Sansa was thinking a very many things at once - still clutching the doll from her father, still staring with desperate wonder at the Hound - and then, as the door creaked open, she found her voice.

“Take me with you.”

A burst of green wildfire illuminated the surprise on his strange face, but then it was gone, leaving them both in shadow. Sansa could not read him as he growled out his answer; all she felt was the weak, terrified glimmer of something she’d not dared grasp in months.

“Aye. No sense waiting around. Get on with it, girl.”

Hope.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended this to be a one-shot. ... Oops.

Sandor hadn’t expected to see her.

He’d only wanted to hide - hide for a moment like the dog he was, tail between his fucking legs, drinking stale wine and retreating from the fire. All of King’s Landing was ablaze around him; it was a waking nightmare. He couldn’t even dwell on his recent treachery, not with hell itself threatening to swallow it all up.

But he’d chosen her chambers for a reason, hadn’t he?

He supposed he’d wanted to see her again, one last time - to make sure the murderous cunt Ilyn Payne hadn’t sliced her head off her neck, or the spiteful cunt Queen hadn’t poured essence of nightshade down her throat.

But altruism hadn’t brought him here. Cowardice had. He was cowering from the fire and she’d caught him at it, and for some reason her wide, lovely eyes and blind, lovely fear made him all the angrier.

Angry enough to grab her wrists tight enough to bruise, to snarl the truth into her terrified face. 

And still, somehow, she’d said yes.

He hadn’t put much thought into what he’d do if he did, though he couldn’t let her see as much now.

He barked at her to grab only what she needed and stood impatiently by as she fluttered from chest to chest, panic bright in her eyes. Moments later, she  had only three things - a small, cinched velvet bag, a soiled white blanket, and the doll. She bundled it all up in the blanket and started towards him, but the Hound stopped her with a jerk of his chin.

“Don’t be an idiot, girl. Get a hood on - that hair’ll get us killed quicker than the bleeding wildfire.”

Sansa clutched her bundle to her chest even as she pulled on a hooded cloak. Her fingers shook as she clasped the fastening. When she looked up at him, her hair was covered by the drape of cloth, but her eyes were as blue and earnest as ever.

Sandor could only hope no one else knew those eyes as well as he did.

“On with it, then,” he snapped, and she scurried out ahead of him.

Weaving through the castle was tricky, but no trickier than he’d expected. For stretches they’d encounter no one; there came only distant shouts, frantic screams. And then they’d pass through a corridor of people, all armored, all rushing. In one such scrum, one of the men paused at the sight of them, long enough to call out, voice quick with panic,

“Why are you off the battlements, Hound?”

Sandor made a noise of impatience deep in his throat, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.

“The King’s commands aren’t your concern,” he snapped. For a moment, the man looked as though he might argue, but an explosion from nearby rumbled through their feet and he turned back to run off the way he’d been going. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed Sansa at all.

“Go,” Sandor snarled, seizing the girl by the arm and half-dragging her down the corridor.

Outside, the sky was black and cloud-bruised, flashing with wildfire green and orange flames. It was chaos in the yard, armored men running back and forth, wounded men gurgling out howls of pain. No one had a glance to spare for two more people running across the yard; no one took note of a hound untying a horse, hoisting a girl up onto its back.

“Slump over,” he hissed, not looking at Sansa. She turned to him, confusion creasing her eyes. He bared his teeth in frustration as he prepared the horse, stuffing a saddlebag with supplies and speaking through his clenched jaw.

“Slump over, onto your things. Hide them. Play at unconscious. If anyone sees me kidnapping you, the bounty on my head’ll be worth more than any man’s good judgment.”

She quickly understood and collapsed against the horse’s broad neck, all sign of the grimy white blanket hidden. Sandor might have been amused at the childish drama of her swoon had he not been so preoccupied, lacing reins and restrapping armor.

When he swung up onto the saddle behind her, jostling her forward, she stayed still.

“Good girl,” he murmured, snapping the reins. The horse started to trot.

They cut a quick path through King’s Landing, east and away from the flames. The alleys were deserted, doors all locked tight and windows obscured by drawn hangings. The battle waged on but it fell further and further behind them, the horse deftly side stepping those few terrified souls who ran through the smoky streets.

When he reached the gates, he bellowed an order - they opened them quickly, barely sparing him a glance. Had Sandor been a religious man, he might’ve sent up a prayer to the seven for keeping word of his treachery from spreading. Had they known of his treason, they’d never let him leave.

“Ser Clegane!”

He was halfway through the gate when the guard called out, and Sandor heard him approaching at a run. He ground his teeth together, stilling the horse and glancing behind him. At the guard, first, and then the wall - there were no archers atop, and no guards stationed outside. They must have all been called to duty.

“Ser Clegane -“ the guard repeated, closer now, and Sandor spat harshly on the ground between them. Sansa stayed still and forward-slumped.

“I’m not a fucking ser, I’m a dog,” Sandor growled. He kept the reins in one hand, the other moving warily to the hilt of his sword. “What d’you want?”

The guard stopped beside them, looking up at him with confusion written into his expression. Sandor recognized him with a sinking stomach: he was young, a new guardsman. A jovial, gentle man who was shit with a crossbow. Sandor would know; he’d tried to teach him once. He liked the boy.

“Ser - er, Hound,” the guard started, finally noticing the body on Sandor’s horse. The distinctly female body. “I was wondering where the king was sending you, since surely you should be at his -?”

Just then, a crack of something exploding ripped the air in two, spooking the horse. It reared and snorted, front hooves kicking at the air, knocking Sansa into Sandor and causing her to startle. Her hood slipped and exposed the copper of her hair, and for a moment, those blue, blue eyes were wide and bright with fear -

The guard gasped, and Sandor swore crudely under his breath.

He made it as swift and painless as possible. The tip of his sword opened the man’s throat and Sansa’s scream drew another ill-tempered whinny from the horse.

“Shut up, girl,” Sandor snarled, shoving her down between the shoulder blades as he dug his boots into the horse’s sides. “Seven hells, shut up or we’ll have the entire bloody Kingsguard on our heels.”

The horse broke into a gallop, its brown flank speckled with warm blood. Sandor did not think of the man he had just cut down. He never did when he liked them.

They rode hard, until the city was well and truly behind them. It wasn’t until King’s Landing was hidden by trees and shadows that Sandor gave the back of Sansa’s cloak a gentle yank, telling her she could straighten. 

But she didn’t rise.

_ Had she actually swooned? _ he wondered with some disdain, slowing the horse and leaning closer. It was then that he noticed the shake of her shoulders, heard the grating sounds of a woman weeping. He ground his teeth again, a noise of irritation rumbling up from his chest.

“Don’t tell me you shed tears for that shithole,” he said, disgust thick in his voice.

This had her attention.

She shoved herself upright, eyes red, still clutching her runaway bundle to her belly. She was unsteady on the horse, even bracketed as she was by his arms, and couldn’t quite turn to see him. He caught the corner of her glare all the same.

“You didn’t have to kill him.” Her voice was thick, congested with emotion, and it took a moment for Sandor to realize who she meant.

“Is that so?” he said, cruel and mocking. He wound the reins once more around his armored hand. Sansa’s expression was hard and heavy with judgment.

“I should have let him live, should I? Let him run back to your dearly beloved and tell him just where he can find you?”

Sansa’s expression wavered, a dip appearing in the plush of her lower lip. The sight of it gave Sandor a cruel pleasure.

“Or better yet, let him seize you from the horse just then - drag you back into the battle fray, through the castle to your Queen? That is, if a mob didn’t get to you first, tear at you and split apart your legs, stab at you with their pricks and-”

“Stop it!”

Sandor was startled into silence by the force of her command. She had her back to him now, her hood hiding her face from view. The urge to drive the blade of his words deeper was strong, but he bit his tongue. 

They were moving through a sparse, dark forest. It was a mercy the moon was so full else they’d have to shelter, and he didn’t think it wise to stop with so little space between them and King’s Landing.

After a stretch of silence, the girl spoke again, surprising him. He’d thought she’d slipped into sleep, slumped over but upright, leaning as she was against his right arm.

“I knew him.”

The guard. She was still on about the fucking guard.

“He was kind to me, once. After my… my father. He told me a joke - about a mummer, and an eel pie.”

Sandor’s ruined mouth twitched for a moment, threatening a smile. He could see the lad doing it; he was a happy, laughing sort, from a good house with a good disposition. Of course he was gentle with the little bird.

“But you killed him.”

The sour expression was back on his face. He thought, not for the first time, of how Sansa Stark must see him: hideous, violent. Blood-thirsty. Cruel. All things he’d done nothing to dispel and only actively worked to drive home. He couldn’t fault her for her hatred.

“Aye, little bird,” he answered after a pause, voice gruff but not mean. “He was a good man, and I killed him.”

The girl stiffened between his arms. His agreement had taken her by surprise.

“And I’d kill him again, and again, if it meant keeping you from the king.”

Her back was so straight it looked as though she was held up by a taut string. For a moment, her shoulders rose as though on an inhale, and he thought she might speak. But she didn’t.

Instead, the moon rose higher, and the horse trotted on.

Eventually, Sansa Stark slumped once more over the horse’s glossy neck, and Sandor kept vigil as she slept. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I’m working off of a very limited knowledge of the GoT universe, so please forgive vagueness. If you want to name the slain guard, let me know! I already had a very helpful reader point out an error in the last chapter, so if you see any more, let me know. Thanks @Saoirse97, and thank YOU for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa woke to rough hands on her waist.

“No -” she mumbled, her eyes slitting open. She struck out blindly, her movements made sluggish with sleep, only for a hard hand to close around her wrist and yank it aside.

“I don’t think so, girl.”

The familiar grumble of the Hound’s voice jolted her awake. For a moment, she was falling; she struggled, only to meet the ground in a pile of skirts and bleariness, the Hound’s hands gone from her waist.

She rubbed at her eyes before opening them in earnest, and her stomach hollowed out at what she saw.

Freedom.

There was nothing but forest around them, the trees and bracken all softened by dawn. Birdsong came to her from the tops of the trees. When she inhaled, she smelled only damp lichen and the sharp scent of the Hound.

They had truly done it. They had fled the king.

“Take your blanket,” the Hound said, kicking something towards her without sparing either a second glance. “You almost lost it on the ride. Next time, tie it to you.”

She startled into action as she saw it on the dirt - the white of its fabric grayed from grime and dust. It was a wonder her hadn’t recognized it; a wonder and a mercy. She was sure there’d be no end to the torment if he realized that one of her three most prized possessions had him stamped all over it.

Sansa seized the white cloak and was careful to fold it into neat squares, her mind racing as she did. She ran through the events as she remembered them.

The Hound, in her chambers. The pair of them, running through the castle. Herself, clutching the horse’s mane, smelling hay and animal as she buried her face in its coarse hair. King’s Landing, burning behind them. And… the murdered guard.

Guilt made a stone of her stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. She had known that man and his kindness, and his recognition of her had gotten him killed. She knew the Hound had been right; if he’d gone and told, they’d know where to start looking for her.

But was it right to trade one life for another? Was it right to kill an innocent man for a guilty girl?

The Hound’s rasping voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Thought you’d be happier.”

Sansa looked up from where she sat in the dirt. She was still clutching the cloak; the doll from her father and her little velvet bag of sewing accoutrement rested on her lap.

The Hound didn’t look at her as he spoke. He was pawing through the saddlebag, his face turned away.

“You’re going home. Back to Winterfell. Away from the king and his pit of snakes.”

He was right, Sansa supposed, and she tried to grasp onto the idea of such a thing. She’d spent so long dreaming of it - an escape, a rescue. Robb riding in on horseback, cutting Joffrey and all his men down, bringing her back home. Ser Rodrick, perhaps, leading a charge of bannermen in her honor. Or Jon, even Jon, feathered in black, his mournful eyes cast past her as he stole her away in the night.

But this was different. She didn’t dare flare the hope too bright; she didn’t dare fan the flames. The Hound wouldn’t hurt her, but he hadn’t always stopped other men from exorcising their anger on her.

She wasn’t out of the woods yet. She’d just broken into them.

“Of course, my lord. My apologies. I’m ever so grateful -”

The Hound made a sharp noise of disgust and slapped the saddlebag closed. He rounded on her, the burned side of his face made somehow worse by the soft newborn sun, and glared.

“Don’t do that,” he snapped, unstoppering a wineskin.

Sansa’s brow furrowed and she opened her mouth to speak, to ask irritably what she’d done to offend, but he was quicker.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m one of them. Save your songs for your knights, little bird. I don’t need your gratitude.”

He tipped the wineskin up to his mouth, throat working as he swallowed it down. It was only then that Sansa noticed how sour her own mouth tasted; fear, she supposed, and a poor night’s sleep.

“Got to piss. Stay here, unless you want to die in these woods.”

Without a parting glance, the Hound turned and stomped off through the woods, leaving Sansa very alone.

She stood gingerly, clutching her things to her chest. The horse they’d taken wasn’t the usual beast she saw with the Hound; this one was smaller, its coat dirty with dust and mud. Sansa approached him carefully, stroking him once on the neck and murmuring placating nonsense before peeling open the saddlebags.

She had been looking for water and found instead a small armory; cloth-wrapped daggers and whetstones clattered against one another as she searched for the leather water sack.

“Gods,” she exhaled, placing her things one atop the other on the horse’s broad saddle. Her hands were slow as she pushed aside blade after blade, finally finding the water cask at the bottom. It was half-empty, and Sansa poured it all into her mouth. It eased the sourness of her tongue, and she realized she, too, had to relieve herself.

She turned, cheeks reddening at the thought of what she was about to do, and found a copse of dense bushes not too far off. She gathered up her skirts and squatted, smallclothes around her ankles, and waited.

It took a moment before her body complied, and when it did she felt inordinately proud of herself.

I can do this, Sansa thought firmly. I’m not brave like Robb or bold like Arya, but I can make it home. I’ve escaped the king; I’ve left the city behind. The Hound will protect me. I can be clever.

The thoughts emboldened her and she stood, pulling her smallclothes back into place, a higher lift to her chin.

At least until she turned to find a dirty, leering face staring back at her, the stranger's stubby little sword pointed straight at her heart.

“I know who you are,” he breathed, his eyes rapidly moving over her features. There was a hungry glint to him, almost feverish; Sansa had seen it before, in the black eyes of the kennel dogs.

“I - I beg your pardon,” Sansa stammered, taking a step backward. All resilience from a moment before had gone, and she remembered the bread riots with a shudder of potent fear.

“You don’t beg anyone for anything. Do you, my lady?”

The way the man spoke her title was oily with hatred. His wet teeth flashed, browned and bared.

Sansa’s eyes flickered past him, back to where the horse was tied up with its saddlebag full of daggers. She should have taken one; she should have taken two. But surely the Hound was close; the Hound would save her. He always saved her. This is what she told herself, even as the man drew nearer.

“Please - please, I think there’s been a misunderstanding - I’m not anyone, I’m no one-”

The man laughed but it was a mean sound, little daggers of his own making stabbing out of his throat.

“You’re the Lady Stark. ‘Hair like fire,’ they say - famous hair for a famous name. How much would they pay for such famous h-?”

There was a wet thud and the man’s expression slid off his face. A moment later, he slid down, too, collapsing in a boneless heap, his body all unnatural angles and bubbling blood. Sansa looked for a moment too long at the opened back of his skull, tearing her eyes away to see the Hound stomping towards her. His face was contorted with anger.

“What did I fucking tell you?” he seethed, putting a boot in the dead man’s back and wrenching the axe out of his skull. It came loose with a squelch.

“I had to relieve myself -” Sansa tried, tugging down her sleeves to hide the shaking of her hands. The Hound made a scathing sound and shot his free hand out - for one hysterical moment, she thought he might hit her, and she winced just as she had in her chambers -

But no. He was only pulling her hood back up, tugging sharply on the strings.

“Don’t,” he growled, wiping the axehead off on his thigh. The blood shone in the sunlight. “Do that again. Do you hear me? Wherever he came from, there are more, and they’d all love to be the one to bring the little bird back to her nest.”

Sansa nodded, her jaw clenched so tightly it was beginning to give her a headache. That was two men she’d seen killed in the past few hours; she felt weak-jointed and ill from it, but didn’t want the Hound to see. His eyes lingered on her for a moment, his marred face screwed up in an expression she didn’t recognize. Before she could place it, it was gone, and he was jerking his chin over his shoulder.

“Can’t stay now. We’ll ride a bit longer, until the horse needs rest. Try to hit Mummer’s Ford or something near it.”

He waited for Sansa to fall into step in front of him. She was clutching the edges of her sleeves, trying to blot out the image of the man’s split-open skull from her mind. But the Hound wasn’t done yet. He swore again, called the dead man a few crude names, and said something that made Sansa feel strangely, childishly, bereft:

“And we’ll have to do something about your bloody hair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this thinking I was just writing it for me, though it’d be cool if I got a few kudos. Yall have given me THIRTY! Thank you, I love you, this is slowly morphing into a creation of its own. And stay with me - there will be romance.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound gains insight.

Sandor had never been alone with a lady for this long before.

He felt more out of sorts than usual, ill-tempered and persistently sober. He could tell Sansa wasn’t right after, either. He supposed it had to do with seeing two men killed. He might’ve felt guilty for it had both kills not been to save her pretty skin. Still, it gave him no pleasure to see Sansa suffer.

Not that he had any way of lessening it.

They rode the next two days in silence. Sansa stayed locked in place between his arms, her legs slung over one side of the horse. She had tucked her grimy blanket and velvet bag away in the saddlebag but kept a tight grip on the doll. He’d nearly made a comment about it, arsh and teasing, until he’d noticed how pale her knuckles were where she grasped it.

After that, he decided not to say anything at all.

The first evening, he killed and skinned some squirrels. She kept her silence as he made the fire but her eyes were shrewd as she watched, as though memorizing how to do it herself.

 _Good_ , he thought. _Let her learn. Let her live_.

They ate and drank without words. Sandor had never minded silence before; in fact, he preferred it. But when it came to the little bird… it was strange not to hear her song, even the stiff, learned songs she’d taken from the city.

When they slept, it was on the forest floor. Sansa kept her her back to him and Sandor slept on his side, facing her. Her hood was up to shroud her telltale hair from view. Sandor should be pleased; he’d been the one to instruct her to hide it. Instead he found himself irritable, inexplicably wanting to tug the hood back and find the golden strands in the red, to see again how firelit it looked in the moonlight. Irritable at her, for inciting such thoughts.

He slept poorly, his heavy armor piled up behind him like a haphazard shield wall. His dreams were thin and close to the surface. He saw men creeping in from the shadows, reaching for Sansa’s ankles and wrists. Each time he snapped awake with wild eyes and a dagger in hand, he found the shadows were unmoving and Sansa slept on. The dirty white blanket rose and fell in time with her breathing.

The next day she broke her silence to ask him flatly if she could relieve herself. Sandor’s answering cough sounded dangerously like a laugh.

“Don’t go past those trees,” he said, pointing at two tall trees in the near-distance.

That was the only thing they said to one another all daylight.

It was squirrel again that evening and some tasteless berries Sansa had found. She carried them to the clearing in her skirts, sinking to her knees to pour them out between them. Sandor waited for her to tell him what they were, but she didn’t. Instead, she popped a few into her mouth, chewing as she reached for the skewered rodent. She tore off a piece and brought it to her mouth.

As a rule, Sandor tried not to look at her too much, though sometimes he caught himself staring. This was one of those times.

She was a strange dichotomy: everything about her screamed of abuse, of hard times. Her elaborate braids were still in her hair, though they hung loose and uncared for at the base of her skull. Her fine dress was ruined, its hem black with mud and soot and dirt. Dark circles smudged the skin beneath her eyes, harsh as bruises.

And yet she sat on a crumbling log with her back straight and her shoulders squared, ever the lady, even after pissing outdoors.

Even after trading a castle for a run with a hound.

  
He did not know what to make of her.

“Water,” he said, thrusting the leather sack toward her. “From the stream, over there. If you need a bath -”

  
“No, thank you,” Sansa interrupted him, polite as ever, not meeting his eye as she took the water. Her answer coupled with the way she refused to look at him twisted in his gut like a turned knife, and he found his own brittle temper snapping.

  
“Always so polite. So honorable. Think I’m going to steal your virtue, do you, girl? After all this - even now -”

“I’m not scared of you,” Sansa said, interrupting him again though this time blue eyes burned into his. It stirred something within him, set something hot into motion, and Sandor scoffed.

“Is that right? Not scared of a mean old dog, are you? That why you look like you’re about to come apart when I’m near, whenever I’m near?”

“I said, I’m not scared of _you_ ,” Sansa repeated, and this time there was the unmistakable shine of tears in her eyes. Triumph and guilt warred for the forefront of Sandor’s mind. He dragged out triumph, stifling guilt as he’d long ago learned.

  
“Then why in the seven hells -” Sandor started, but Sansa burst out, surprising him into silence.

  
“You’re the only one in the south who doesn’t want to kill me, or rape me, or drag me back to Joffrey!”

Her face crumpled as she spoke, eyes reddening, color high in her cheeks. She still clutched the skewered squirrel in her lap, forgotten, as a great sob shuddered her entire body.

“These people, they don’t even know me - or they do, which makes it worse! The man at the gate, he was _kind_ to me, he was a friend. But you’re right, he would’ve delivered me to Joffrey, would’ve told him just where to find me. And the man in the woods -”

She took a sharp breath, her chest heaving, tears spilling freely down her cheeks as she barreled on,

  
“He hated me - _hated_ me, just like the men you pulled off me in King’s Landing. All these people, they don’t even know me and they want to destroy me, to hurt me until I’m nothing! And all because - because -”

Her breath caught in her throat and she struggled to regain it, eyes squeezing shut and mouth pressing into a hard, firm line. Sandor stared at her, useless, as she worked past it.

“Because I’m a _stupid_ little girl whose wish to be special got her father killed. I deserve it - I deserve it, I know, but please don’t sell me off - don’t give me to someone like Littlefinger, or any more strangers -”

“For fuck’s sake,” Sandor swore, shoving himself upright and then dropping down onto one knee, bringing his face nearly level to hers. She was crying outright now, the sound unnerving, and he reached out and took her chin in one large hand.

  
“Look at me, girl - _look at me_.”

  
This time when she did, it was without flinching.

“I’m not selling you. Do you hear me? I’m not fucking selling you. I don’t swear vows, but if I did, I’d swear you one right now. Aye, I know there’ll be gold in it - but gold from your family. From a Stark. That’s the only person I’ll leave you with. A Stark. Do you understand?”

She stared at him, cheeks shining with tears, her chin dimpled with emotion. He gave her a little shake, growling it out again - “Do you understand?” - and when she finally nodded, he answered with a curt nod of his own.

  
“Good girl.”

He gentled his grip on her chin but didn’t let go. She still looked so fragile, as though without him there to hold her up she might fall apart into the dirt.

 _I deserve it_ , she’d said, and he was struck again by how young she must be. It was easy to forget with how much she’d learned from the Queen. Sometimes she seemed to him more woman than girl.

“You didn’t kill your father,” Sandor said, his voice softened to a disdainful gravel. “Your father did that himself, with his bloody honor.” He dropped his hand and straightened, turning to stomp out the fire.

“If you want to make it home alive, honor’s the last thing you’ll need.”

Sansa said nothing, only sniffled in response, and they lapsed back into silence. He didn’t say anything more to her as she splashed cool water onto her face, or as she settled down onto her crude bed of dirt and dried leaves. He just watched the rise and fall of her blanket until sleep came for him.

That night, Sandor’s nightmares were changed: Sansa, her tear-stained face upturned, as Sandor counted out gold coin after gold coin. He awoke abruptly when the moon was still high and abandoned sleep altogether, instead imagining the sheen of her hair in the moonlight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this, I love you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a Moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @heonhoneydew, who told me to continue.

When they reached the forest near Mummer’s Ford, the Hound seemed more irritable than usual.

Sansa couldn’t blame him. She was aching all over, sore from the the jostling of the horse and the stiff position. He had endured all the same while wearing a hundred pounds of armor, and hadn’t gotten a moment of sleep for it.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. It must’ve been midday when she woke up, her cheek pressed to the cool of his breastplate, her shoulder wedged beneath his arm. She’d colored with embarrassment and straightened quickly, expecting to read mockery on his expression. But he was staring straight ahead, a muscle in his jaw jumping. As if he was trying not to notice her at all.

She didn’t know what to make of it.

At least he was speaking to her now, as he helped her down from the horse.

“It’s less than a day’s ride from here to Pinkmaiden. We’ll go there next, keep east until we get up to the Twins.”

Sansa smoothed out her skirts as best as she could. The brocade was ruined; the fine needlework was fraying in some spots, the fabric torn and snagged in others. She had twisted her braids together into the knot at the back of her head, strands of hair loose in her face. She hadn’t seen herself in days, but she knew she must look a fright.

“I’ll be quick about it - here.”

She startled as something hard and cold was suddenly shoved into her hands, his words registering a beat late.

“You’re - you’re leaving me?” Panic made a fist of her throat, tightening her words.

The Hound didn’t look at her as he looped the reins around a thick tree. He’d pushed a sheathed dagger into her hands, and the sight of it made her heart thud urgently in her chest.

“You can’t go into town dressed like that. You look like a highborn - a highborn broken in hard, but a highborn all the same.”

He gave the reins a final yank before casting her a glance. Sansa was clutching the dagger and staring at him with wide eyes.

“Don’t look so grim, girl. I’ll be quick.” He patted the horse on the flank. “If anyone comes near you, go for the neck.”

She fingered the hard handle of the dagger, thinking of how red blood was when it poured from the throat. Fear was edging in, blackening the edge of her thoughts. She thought of the last time she’d been alone in the forest, the split of the man’s head as he died, facedown, in the dirt.

When Sansa looked up, the Hound was looking at her with another of his strange expressions. Twisted, like he was being pulled from either side. 

His rough voice wasn’t so rough when he spoke again.

“I’ll be back, little bird. Stay with the beast.”

He patted the horse again and was gone.

For a while, Sansa paced. Every sound startled her, every creaking tree and scurrying creature. The silence was making monsters out of mundanity. Her own breath was loud in her ears, heightening her fear. So she began to sing.

It was a humming, really. No words. Just the melodies she remembered from childhood, songs about knights and ladies. She didn’t believe their promises anymore but they kept her company all the same. She stood beside the resting horse, her little dagger unsheathed in her hands, humming.

Fear bumped up against her songs, pushing ugly thoughts into her head.

_ What if someone finds you? _

No one would find her. The Hound had been sure of it. And she had her dagger. 

_ A dagger would do little good against archers. _

Unbidden, Theon Greyjoy’s laughing face filled her mind; she had seen him cleave his own arrow right down the middle in the training yard.There was nothing she could do against that.

_ You could die here. _

She reached out and twined her fingers in the horse’s mane, clutching the dagger in her right hand. Fear made her bodice feel tight as she tried to breathe down her unease.

_ What if he never comes back? _

This thought was somehow worse than the last. Sansa’s humming faltered and broke as she imagined it - the Hound, her protector, her… whatever else he was. Lost to her.

No. 

No, he would come back.

Sansa edged up closer to the horse and waited, her eyes bright as she stared out at the forest. Her humming had stopped.

The Hound was as good as his word.

She heard him before she saw him, his heavy gait crunching across the forest floor. He broke through the trees and relief slackened her shoulders. He spotted her and his eyes flashed with something similar, the good side of his face softening. 

For a moment, she thought he was carrying someone in his arms. But no - it was a dress, plain and brown, draped over his arm. A pair of lace-up boots dangled from his hand.

“For her ladyship,” he said sarcastically, and tossed the boots down at her feet. 

Surprising them both, Sansa laughed.

It was a small, bubbled-up laugh, borne more of relief at seeing him again than anything else. But Sandor looked taken aback all the same. Had not Sansa know better, she might’ve sworn she saw the unburned side of his mouth twitch in a smile.

“They’re very fine. Thank you.” She picked up the boots, inspecting the broken-in leather and dirty soles. They were secondhand. A fleeting, uncharitable thought furrowed her brow, and she thought with a shiver of Mycah - a child, cut down by the Hound. Had he…?

She looked up to find him watching her, all sign of humor gone. His mouth was twisted, his eyes narrowed. He held the dress out, sunlight glinting off his dirty armor.

“I paid for them with copper,” he said, as if he’d read the accusation in her thoughts. Sansa cheeks flushed as she took the dress.

“I didn’t -“

“Aye, you did.” He jerked his chin down to the clothes in her arms before turning his back to her and busying himself with the horse. “Dress. There’s an inn with an open room. We’ll sleep there tonight.”

Sansa dressed as quickly as she could. She struggled with the laces of her bodice, glancing self-consciously up at the Hound. His back was still to her; he must’ve refilled his wineskin in town, since he was pulling generously from it as he ignored her.

After a moment her finery was forgotten, a dingy puddle on the forest floor, as she fingered the coarse material of her new dress. It hung shapelessly on her slender figure, rough on her shins. The boots fit her near-perfectly.

She was marveling at this when the Hound turned around. He took one look at her and huffed a harsh laugh, stoppering his wineskin.

“That won’t work,” he said, shaking his head, and Sansa’s heart sank. She looked back down at the dress. Nothing about it was fine, nor the boots. She looked remarkably unremarkable.

“I don’t know what else -”

The Hound waved an impatient hand, scowling.

“Not with those braids in your hair. Out with them.”

At this, Sansa colored again.

“I - I can’t.”

The Hound blinked at her, unmoved. Sansa knew her cheeks were growing hotter under his attention; she could only imagine how he’d react to her reasoning and was loathe to say it aloud. 

“My handmaiden - sh-she was the one who always took them down -”

Irritation was drawing a shroud over the Hound’s face as she spoke. Sansa’s cheeks were burning, the flush spreading to her throat, her chest. Words failed her and she knew how stupid she must sound, childish and inept. She shook her head and dropped her gaze.

“Nevermind. I can do it.”

Her hands went to the elaborate braids. She began to tug at them blindly, staring at the scuffed toes of her new boots. The pins were tight; she felt almost guilty for it, undoing Shae’s lovely handiwork, the last bit of her handmaiden that she had. But the Hound was right. She’d never seen a girl wear her hair like this before, not outside of the Red Keep. 

She tugged and tugged, face screwed up in focus. It wasn’t until she hissed in pain from a pin piercing her thumb that the Hound made any acknowledgment. He swore sharply, and took her by surprise.

  
“Fuck’s sake, girl. I’ve never seen anything more pathetic.”

He pulled off his armored gloves as he stomped up to her, and Sansa caught a glimpse of his hands - rough, dirty. Overlarge. A brute’s hands. She nearly protested but his fingers were threading into her hair before she could, and the words died in her throat.

One by one, the Hound pulled the pins from her hair. The rough, broad pads of his fingers were made gentle by his focus. They scraped against her scalp at intervals, as though he knew just how sore a braid could become. His knuckles brushed against the skin of her neck, raising goosebumps with each touch. He never pulled; instead, he worked each pin out, combed each braid loose, until her hair fell about her shoulders in a vivid, coppery spill.

“There,” he finally said, and she heard the bite of his armor as he stepped back. “Plait it, down your back. Or are you so useless you can’t even do that?”

His words were mean but his tone was changed - he sounded almost breathless, as though he’d been running a long distance. Sansa didn’t know what to think. Her neck and shoulders prickled with gooseflesh and as she touched her hair, she found she had been holding her breath for some time.

She exhaled in a push and began to work her hair into a simple plait, meeting his eyes with a look of reproach. When she finished, it fell thickly over her left shoulder, glossy in the evening sun.

“I’m not useless,” she said, thinking of the dagger she had tucked beneath her arm.

The Hound’s mouth twitched again, his eyes turning up at the corners as he looked at her in her peasant’s disguise.

“No,” he conceded, turning from her. “Maybe not.”

He took the horse’s reins in hand and jerked his chin in the direction he’d come.

“Come, little bird. Let’s eat something other than fucking squirrel.”

The tingling in her shoulders remained as she followed him out of the forest, fingering the end of her braid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For every comment I get, I seem to post a new chapter. Apparently comments are my new lifesblood. And over fifty kudos - I could cry. I love you all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa smiles again, and the Hound is crabby.

The little bird chirped more in Mummer’s Ford than she had all journey past.

It was as though being around people had awoken something in her. She stayed close to his side, her eyes still shuttered with mistrust, but marveled at the village around them.

“Look!” she gasped as they passed a pen of sheep, pointing at a small, bleating lamb walking on wobbling legs. She laughed aloud as grubby children ran by them, and seemed more delighted than offended when a woman carrying an armload of dirty gourds bumped into her and glared.

She looked happier in this shithole village than Sandor had ever seen her in King’s Landing.

He refused to fool himself into feeling responsible for any of it. He had already spent too much time idly remembering her hair - how it had felt, silken and thick in his hands. How it had looked, bright and orange like fire, all the heat and none of the burn. How it had smelled, like rosewater and oils.

It was the most intimately he’d ever touched her, aside  from all the times he’d bodily carried her from tower to tower in the Red Keep. But this was different. She had allowed him this.

Not that it mattered. He was a dog, she a lady. Even in the least flattering dress he could find, she shone like burnished copper, lovelier than every other woman in Mummer’s Ford by half.

_ A fucking inconvenience _ , he thought sourly, as he watched two men slow down to watch her pass. Sandor’s glare was enough to get them moving again, and quickly.

“If anyone asks, girl, I’m your father,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “And your name is -”

“Tilly,” Sansa supplied quickly. Too quickly; she’d been thinking of this for some time. 

She met his eye with a small, sheepish smile. 

“She was my friend - a girl in the village near where I grew up. She always wanted to see the south.”

“Tilly, then,” Sandor rasped in agreement, giving the reins a little tug. The horse huffed and shook its great head.

The inn they were staying in was small, a second floor stacked atop the first with eight rooms between them. On the bottom floor was a tavern, and modest stables leaned against the sides.

A boy no older than ten came scurrying up to take the horse from Sandor, lingering until he’d gotten a a single penny pressed into his hand.

Inside, the inn’s tavern was dark and warm. The aromas of spiced fowl mixed with the pervasive scent of ale, and Sandor wasted no time in taking a seat at one of the scrubbed wooden tables. Sansa followed him more cautiously, sliding in beside him.

“Whatever meat pie you have,” Sandor told a serving girl, gesturing between himself and Sansa. “And ale. A tankard of it.”

A moment later, two steaming plates slid before them, along with a sloshing tankard of amber ale. Sandor glanced over at the sound of the little bird’s sigh. It had been a sigh of pleasure.  He had to force back a smile at the sight of her,wolfing down the flaky crust with her fingers.

They ate in silence, Sandor chasing each bite with a swallow of ale. Each drink softened the edge of his nerves, though he knew better than to try and drink them away. He wasn’t fool enough to think he’d gotten away with his treachery; not yet. There would be a price on his head, a bounty following him all across Westeros. And, unlike the girl, he could not disguise himself. 

His only solution was to keep moving. They could spend one night in this town, no more. The Lannisters had spies everywhere, Varys’ little birds and their little songs. But a night in a room was better than a night in the forest, and the girl needed to sleep in a bed.

As if summoned by Sandor’s thoughts, a man slid across the table from them. 

Sandor didn’t look up.

“I know you,” the man said. 

Sandor’s eyes flicked casually around the room, taking stock of every door, every window. Every man. As far as he could see, all of them were peasants and unarmed. The man himself was wearing a tunic and had no weapons Sandor could see from his chest down.

“A washerwoman, aren’t you? From Pinkmaiden.”

Belatedly, Sandor realized he was addressing Sansa, and he finally looked up. The man was old, his hairline receding and his eyes watery. He was looking at Sansa like the the Imp looked at wine.

“N-no,” Sansa started, but Sandor interrupted her.

“My daughter,” he said shortly, casting Sansa a glance. “We’ve traveled from Flea Bottom. Never been to Pinkmaiden.”

The man’s attention finally shifted onto Sandor, his focus lingering on the ruin of his face.

“Hard ride, all the way from King’s Landing. You the one who came in earlier, paid my wife for a room?”

_ Of course he’s the fucking innkeeper, _ Sandor thought.  _ Cunt _ .

“Aye, I did. And stable, for my horse. Paid your boy a penny.”

Sandor scraped the last of his pie off his plate. Beside him, Sansa had gone listless, her hands resting by her half-eaten pie. Sandor didn’t say a word as he dragged her plate in front of himself and began to eat that, too.

“Well. You’ll be just up the stairs, second on the right.”

Sandor grunted in response, his mouth full. It wasn’t until the man lingered a moment longer that he looked up again, only to find him still looking at Sansa. She had gone very still beside him, fingers shining with grease where the gripped the edge of the table.

Sandor’s eyes slid back over to the innkeeper.

“Fuck off,” he said bluntly. The man’s mouth opened in offense and for a moment, he looked like he might say something. But his eyes caught the hilt of the sword peeking over Sandor’s shoulder and he seemed to think better of it. He was gone a moment later, and Sandor glanced over at Sansa. Her good cheer had vanished; she looked faintly ill.

“Couldn’t get two rooms,” Sandor said flatly. “Your virtue’s safe with-“

“I don’t care about that,” Sansa said, firmly enough that Sandor believed her. He turned to look at her more fully, taking in the flash of her eyes, the set of her jaw.

“I don’t like how they look at me - how  _ he _ looked at me. Like they want to peel my skin away.”

Sandor’s laugh was sharp and short as he dragged his ale closer.

“It isn’t your skin they want to peel away, girl. Fine - I’ll finish this and we’ll go.”

True to his word, Sandor drained the tankard and they pushed back their chairs. As he moved toward the stairs, saddlebags in hand and armor clanking, he felt the eyes of the innkeeper follow them all the way up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late night chapter for lovelybeyondmeasure, shoshanacohen, properhaunt, and Schmitty_Schmoop, who were generous and encouraging.
> 
> And Direwaggle42, who has become this story’s beating heart.
> 
> Thank yall for commenting, it keeps me writing.
> 
> It was meant to be a fuckin one shot. #noragrets


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s only one bed.

Sansa stared at the single bed, color ruddying her chest.

The Hound was moving noisily around her, unstrapping armor and letting it fall to the floor, piece by piece. He had bolted the door as soon as they’d come in and was busy checking the window frame. For what, Sansa didn’t know; all she could think about was the strange night that stretched out before her, in a room with the king’s errant dog and only one bed.

“Move,” Sandor said, shouldering past her to the door. She did as she was told, stepping further into the room, only to startle at a loud, scraping sound. She turned to find Sandor dragging a heavy chest in front of the door; he stood it on end, propped it at an angle, and wedged it tightly between the floor and the door handle. He yanked on the handle, hard. The door didn’t budge.

Seemingly satisfied, he returned to noisily stripping off his armor.

Sansa wasn’t sure what to do.

She had never slept in a bed with a man before.

No - that wasn’t true.

She’d climbed into her parents’ bed as a child, when thunderstorms split the sky or Old Nan’s stories perverted her dreams. Sleeping tucked up against her father’s side had been the safest she’d ever felt.

She watched the Hound as he swore and pulled at his shoulder straps, wondering if sleeping beside him would feel anything like that. ‘My daughter,’ he’d told the innkeep. Perhaps it would. Perhaps the things she felt when she looked at him - strange, unfamiliar things that glowed like coals low in her belly - were similar to what grown girls felt for their family.

“Seven fucking hells,” the Hound spat, interrupting her thoughts as he yanked his breastplate off and flung it to the ground with a clang. Sansa bit down on her bottom lip, feeling suddenly like she might laugh.

Instead, she moved to the jug and bowl and began to clean herself.

She was grimy from the days’ riding, but she knew that to take a bath would mean being alone, without the Houne, in the inn. It was not an attractive thought. She would wait to bathe.

Her fingers were in her mouth, halfway through cleaning her teeth, when she noticed the Hound had gone quiet. There was no looking glass with which to spy on him. Instead she turned, finding him sitting in the chair nearest the cold fireplace, sleepily watching her.

He had taken off all his armor.

It was jarring to see him stripped of it. The sky outside had blackened and the only light came from three stubby candles. One flickered on the wall by his left shoulder, illuminating the mottled, thick scarring of his face. The other two were by the bed, one on either side, making twisting, dancing shadows on the bare walls.

He was wearing only breeches and a tunic, the top of which was loose and unlaced to reveal a thatch of dark hair. Something in her stirred strangely to see it. She found herself wondering, unbidden, about his nakedness, how his bare skin would look, oxlike muscles shifting beneath it as he moved.

Sansa flushed and turned quickly away, trying to will away her blush. They were dangerous thoughts; dead-end thoughts. This, of all places, was no place for them. She rinsed her mouth out hurriedly and moved towards the bed.

He had put her things on the small table beside it - his cloak, her doll, her sewing things. She did her best not to be touched by the gesture but failed.

Sansa unlaced her boots in silence, aware that the Hound’s eyes were still on her. She wondered, childishly, what he must think of her - how he must see her, in her peasant’s dress with her unwashed hair.

_ I bet he can’t wait to be rid of me _ , Sansa thought, and the idea of it filled her with an inexplicable melancholy.

She finally approached the bed, hesitating as she turned down the furs. Her heart had drifted up, high in her chest, and was beating thickly at the base of her throat in anticipation. Would he be warm, she wondered, with his body so close to hers?

“I’ll blow out the candles,” she offered shyly, beginning to climb into bed, the furs clutched tightly in her hand.

“I don’t think so, girl.”

The rasp of his voice stilled her, and her brow furrowed as he heaved himself up from the chair and crossed the room toward her. Her heart leapt higher still - he had left his boots by the chair but his footsteps were heavy from his bulk, his nearness setting her stomach fluttering. For a moment when he reached out, she thought he might touch her -  _ hoped _ he might -

But he didn’t. Instead he seized the furs, all of them, and dragged them from the bed, leaving Sansa exposed in her ugly dress, feet and ankles bare on the hard mattress.

“I may be a dog, but even I can’t sleep on a plain floor. Use your blanket.”

And she watched as he folded the blankets over on the floor at the foot of the bed, dragging his greatsword toward him. He blew out the candles one by one, not sparing her another glance, until it was only silvery moonlight that made shadows on the walls. 

When he laid down on his blankets, it was to face the door, his back toward her.

Sansa’s mind was reeling as she dragged his cloak towards her, inhaling the now-familiar scent of faded sweat and dirt. This was better, surely - no one could question her honor if she’d never shared a bed with a man. He had done her a great kindness, she knew.

It still took her a long while to fall asleep, well after the slow, deep sounds of his breathing filled the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels stupid to keep thanking individual people, but I have a feeling next chapter I’ll be at it again.
> 
> I love you all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound does some more murder.

Sandor woke with the dawn, his neck stiff and back protesting. He slipped out of the room, standing just outside it to relieve himself into a chamber pot. No one else in the inn seemed awake yet - no one but the stable boy, who appeared at the top of the stairs just as Sandor was tying his breeches.

“I’ve got a job for you,” Sandor growled.

The boy brightened, sensing more coin, and hurried over. Sandor proceeded to list off nearly a dozen things, cracking the door and rummaging around for money as he spoke.

“Can you remember all that, boy?” Sandor rasped, holding a silver coin up to the weak sunlight. The stable boy’s eyes shone with childlike greed as he nodded. He had stopped trying to peer into the room beyond; Sandor’s body was blocking it from view.

“Get on with it, then. There’ll be silver enough for you if you get it all.”

“Yes, ser,” the boy said eagerly, and Sandor’s harsh curse sent him hurrying down the corridor.

“Not a goddamned knight,” Sandor was mumbling as he pushed the door shut, barring it for good measure.

When he turned, he found Sansa awake.

She was sitting on the bed looking at him, strands of golden red making loose corkscrews by her cheekbones. Her eyes were still hazy with sleep and he knew she was still shaking it off, not fully herself.

That didn’t stop his stomach from twisting pleasantly as she smiled at him, a sweet, early-morning smile that made the blue of her eyes brighten.

“I slept much better in a bed. Thank you.”

Her words were prim but groggy as she rubbed at her eyes. She looked so vulnerable - so pretty. 

Sandor felt the misplaced urge to slam his sword into something. 

He only grunted in answer, turning to bundle up the furs on the floor. Sansa was already folding up her blanket - always so loving, in careful little squares. 

_ Probably just like her septa taught her _ , Sandor thought to himself. He meant it to be scathing, but instead it rang… fond?

He stomped a foot into his boot more violently than was necessary, as if to counteract the near-tenderness of his thoughts.

“We’ll eat and we’ll go.”

He busied himself with lacing his boots, not looking up as Sansa slipped down from the bed. He heard a tight inhale and then a slow, languorous sigh, as though she’d stretched. He tried not to imagine what such a thing might look like - all the planes of her body, a woman’s body - as he yanked harshly on his laces.

But he wasn’t able to keep himself from glancing up as she walked to the water, stealing a glance of her bare feet. The dress he’d bought her was several inches too short, something forgiven by the height of the boots. Barefoot, however, the delicate bones in her feet were exposed, the intimate jut of her ankle bone. The small shapes of her toes.

It was more than he should’ve seen and he dropped his gaze, starting in on his armor.

Just like in the forest, they didn’t speak.

It wasn’t until they had gathered up all their things and Sandor had armored and armed himself that they acknowledged one another again, Sansa by turning her face up to him expectantly, Sandor by jerking his chin towards the door.

“Out you go, little bird. Long ride ahead.”

Downstairs, the same serving girl slid two hot plates of sausages and brown eggs before them, along with a few scraggy-looking turnips. Sansa looked at the plate and then up at Sandor, apprehension creasing her eyebrows as though she wasn’t sure whether she was permitted to speak.

“Out with it,” Sandor snapped, biting into an egg.

“It’s just - I saw she had tea, and I haven’t had tea in so long -“

“Go, girl. Ask for your tea. Be quick about it.”

Sansa’s answering smile was disproportionately bright. She pushed away from the table without a backward glance, following the serving girl.

Sandor watched her go, his shortsword a reassuring weight at his hip. The tavern was more populated this morning that it had been last night. Clusters of men sat at tables, a few armed, all ignoring him. Just the way he liked it.

As he turned his eyes back to his plate, they snagged on someone else - a man, sat at the table across from his.

The innkeep. Watching him.

Sandor blinked at him dispassionately, and turned his attentions back to his plate.

He sensed rather than saw as the innkeep stood and made his way to Sandor’s table. He slid into the seat opposite, his eyes boring into the crown of Sandor’s head. Sandor ignored him.

“She’s pretty, your daughter.”

  
Sandor grunted without looking up, his mouth full of crispy sausage.

“It’s a lucky thing, then. That she’s not really your daughter.”

Sandor movements stuttered, the sausage pausing midway to his mouth. He still didn’t lift his chin; instead, he resumed eating as though the man hadn’t spoken. He kept his eyes low as he scanned the room for Sansa. His sword weighed heavy on his back, as though reminding him of its presence.

“Thing is, I never seen a man look at his daughter like you look at ‘er. Like she’s something sweet and juicy for you to eat.”

There she was, coming up behind the drunkard. She caught Sandor’s eye, her face creased in confusion. Sandor blinked at her placidly, tearing a sausage in two with his teeth. He hoped she understood him -  _ stay calm _ .

“And you don’t deny it - that you desire her,” the man pressed, gesturing at Sandor with his cup. “You were in one room last night, you and the girl - your  _ daughter _ . Awful quiet up there. Barred door.”

Sandor swallowed and finally looked up, fixing the man with his full focus. Behind him, Sansa had gone very still. She was holding a cup of tea in her lovely hands and watching Sandor with a shrewd focus.

The innkeep leaned in, seeming to revel in Sandor’s attention, and sunk the blade of his accusations deeper:

“My only question is - are you a sick man, or are you a liar?”

Sandor moved very quickly, jostling the table with a loud scrape as he stood and drew his greatsword.

“If one more word comes spilling out your cunt mouth, I’ll ram this sword so far up your arse, you’ll know what your own arsehole tastes like.”

The innkeep’s nasty expression had faltered into fear. For a moment, silence rang in the tavern, loud and pressing.

And then -

“That’s the Hound - that’s Sandor Clegane! A hundred silvers for his head!” cried one of the armed men, launching the scrape of a dozen swords drawn.

“And the girl with him - her hair - Stark! Sansa Stark!”

This was a different voice, and Sandor snarled with frustration. All he’d wanted was a hot meal and a bed to sleep in. Now he’d have to slaughter a tavern full of men to keep the little bird’s whereabouts from reaching the fucking king.

“Turn around, girl,” he growled, choking up his grip on his sword as two of the men rushed him. Sansa stood, stock-still and staring. Sandor thought again of her tears in the woods; how she’d been wide-eyed and silent for days after he’d cut down two men in front of her.

It was this he was thinking of as steel clashed into steel, a great bellow tearing out of his chest. 

“For fuck’s sake, girl,  _ look away _ !” 

He spared Sansa a final, fierce glare before the blade of his sword sunk into flesh. Warm blood misted his face.

His greatsword came down again and again, flashing through the air and swinging up darker with blood each time. He threw the table into a foolhardy pair who charged Sansa, knocking them down and sinking his blade into each man’s face in turn. He severed arms, slashed thighs, hit every major artery he could until the stuffy room stank with blood, shit, and bile.

It wasn’t until there was only one left - the innkeep, cowering beneath a table - that Sandor dragged a hand over his face, his palm coming away hot and red.

“Cunt,” was all Sandor said, derisive and final as he stabbed his sword once into the innkeep’s chest. The man died with a burbling cry. When Sandor turned away, his expression was twisted and he was breathing heavily.

Sansa stared at him, eyes very hard, clutching the windowsill behind her. Scared. Scared of him, no doubt, and the thought felt like he’d been stabbed through his armor, the knife twisted. All of the last few days, laid it to ruin.

Sandor growled out a sound of irritation and kicked aside a cooling corpse.

“Come, girl. Time to go.”

Wordlessly, she came toward him. He expected a wide berth, perhaps more shaking in her hands. Instead, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, and led him deftly away from the bodies he’d made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an actual outline for this now and it is... extensive.
> 
> Yall are the reason for this, I love you. Over a hundred kudos, how in the hell.
> 
> Special thanks to DaddyDrac, PigiSi, lovebeyondmeasure, and you, for motivating me to keep posting. And special thanks to Direwaggle42, who leaves me actual dissertation on her favorite bits which is so deeply gratifying.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa doesn’t know what to make of him.

Sansa kept her grip on Sandor’s armored elbow as they stepped out of the inn.

The difference was jarring; the early-morning air was cool and sweet on her cheeks, the birdsong gentle and pleasant. There was nothing to suggest the massacre staining the floors of the in . Even the little streets were still empty - no, almost empty.

The stable boy from yesterday was running toward them, a grin bright on his face.

“I got it, ser! All of it!” he said excitedly to the Hound, thrusting a heavy-looking sack toward him. Sansa glanced over with some surprise, only to find the Hound’s face twisted with… what was it? … Guilt?

He ignored Sansa’s questioning look and addressed the boy.

“The innkeep - your father?”

The boy shook his head, still smiling.

“No, ser. My father’s a farmer, out that way.” He flung an arm behind him, back the way he’d come. Some of the strange expression cleared from the Hound’s face. He jerked his chin in a nod and opened the sack, rifling through its contents. Seemingly satisfied, he dipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out not one but three coins - one silver and two gold.

The boys eyes grew as round and large as the wheels of a carriage.

“Silver’s for you, if you don’t go in that inn.”

The boy nodded vigorously, already reaching out for the money. The Hound lifted it just out of reach.

“Gold’s for your father. Tell him to use it as he sees fit, for their families.”

If the boy was confused, he didn’t show it. Instead he swore up and down he would deliver the coins and the message to his father, snatching them from the Hound’s hand the moment he could. He ran back the way he’d come, kicking up dirt with his heels.

Sansa tried to reconcile the unexpected kindness with what she knew of the Hound as she followed him to the stables.

She didn’t look back as they rode away from Mummer’s Ford, and didn’t listen to the fading sounds of the little town.

This time, she didn’t shed tears for the dead.

Instead she sat side-saddle between the bracket of the Hound’s arms, one of her arms hooked around his waist. He was stony, silent, and she couldn’t help from stealing glances up at him every now and then. His face and armor were both still streaked with blood; he looked vicious. Just as he’d looked on the night of the Blackwater, the night when he’d saved her.

She wondered how many more times he would save her before this was all through.

They had broken into another forest, daylight growing stronger and dappling the ground with light through the trees. Sansa settled against the hard line of the Hound’s left arm, resigned to a long day’s ride.

But she was wrong.

It felt like they’d only been riding an hour when he pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse to a stop. They were at the narrow part of a stream, the water moving quickly, chattering as it skipped over smooth stones and springy moss.

He didn’t speak as he dismounted, didn’t look at her as he hoisted her onto the ground. He was already turning away from her without a word, but Sansa, emboldened, caught him by the forearm and gave it a yank as she stared up at him.

“Why are we stopping? Is it safe, so close to - ?”

“Got something for you,” the Hound rasped, still avoiding her eye. Both his hands were busy; the left was unstrapping his armor, pulling loose straps and buckles, as the right dug around in the resupplied saddle bags. He drew out a crudely-hewn wooden box, handing it to her, though he seemed loathe to release it. He was glaring at it as though it had done something to offend him; Sansa’ curiosity was piqued.

She took it and opened it, wondering what on earth could upset a dog. Only to feel both confused and underwhelmed at the sight of…

“What is it?” she asked, bringing the box up to her nose and sniffing. It smelled sooty and sharp, like a dirty fireplace.

“Paste. For your hair. Can’t have you going around looking like that.”

Dye - it was dye. Black dye, she realized belatedly, and she glanced over at his hair. It hung lank and dark as it always did, shoved to the left side of his face to hide the burn. For some reason it gave her a thrill to think of matching the Hound; to think of strangers, assuming them kin.

“But why are you - ?” She gestured at the armor he was removing, only for the Hound to interrupt her again.

“Stinks like blood. Can’t have a little bird staining her feathers red.”

Without another word, he stomped over to the stream and began to wash.

He was still mostly dressed - breaches, tunic, and boots, all still on - but there was something strangely intimate about watching him bathe in the stream. The way he crouched at the edge reminded Sansa inexplicably of Arya; she had the same sharp set to her shoulders, the same spring-loaded legs of a fighter. Someone who couldn’t be caught unawares.

Unlike herself, who jumped as the Hound barked at her without turning around.

“Get on with it, girl! Left an inn full of dead men behind, won’t be long til their sons and fathers come for vengeance. Don’t want to be here when they do.”

Sansa didn’t need to be told twice. She unbraided her hair and edged nearer to the water. The paste, when mixed with it, made a silky, inky liquid that she worked into her hair, and she watched in fascination as the burnished red was stained a deep, midnight black.

She was almost halfway through the little box when she realized the Hound had finished washing. His armor was back on, shining and clean, and he was sitting against a tree, running a whetstone along the edge of his biggest sword. He was watching her, just as he’d watched her at the inn, only now he looked… displeased.

Her hands faltered and she spoke before she could consider the stupidity of the words, of her own disappointment:

“You don’t like it.”

The Hound barked a sharp, mirthless laugh, shifting where he sat against a tree. He had three weapons on him today, Sansa noticed - the sword at his back, the one at his hip, and the axe from before. ‘Armed to the teeth,’ her father would say. She wondered, fleetingly, what her father would think of Sandor Clegane.

“Doesn’t matter what I like,” the Hound pointed out, the edge of his blade gleaming behind the whetstone’s trail. Sansa’s brow furrowed, and he made a sound of exasperation.

“Hate to see it go, is all. That red - never seen anything like it.” He paused, dropping his gaze and focusing his attention on the tip of his sword. But Sansa still heard him as he grumbled irritably, “I’ll miss it.”

She couldn’t keep herself from smiling as she worked the rest of the dye in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Veronica, heonhoneydew, AshleyP43, lovebeyondmeasure, and Yetis_girl for taking time out to comment ❤️
> 
> And to Direwaggle42, who consistently keeps this experience wonderful.
> 
> Sansa’s getting more comfy around the Hound, which is nothing but good news for us!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is bold.

They rode for days and nights through empty forest.

Sandor was taking the long way, avoiding villages and people, cutting a looping, convoluted path across Westeros. The dead man’s words were still ringing in his ears -  _ a hundred silvers for his head _ . 

A hundred silvers in this time of war was enough to make any man put aside his better judgment. And Sandor could only imagine how much they’d pay for the return of Sansa Stark, daughter of Winterfell.

The only thing he could do now was put as much distance between them and Lannister bannermen as possible.

“Where are we?” Sansa asked one morning, as Sandor was putting out the fire. It had been well over a week since the massacre at the inn; perhaps two.

He shrugged, glancing up at the sky as though he might find a map there.

“Might be in Wayfarer’s Rest by now. Might’ve looped back toward Golden Tooth.”

Sansa’s mouth pursed the way it always did when she was in thought, her brows knitting together. They were dark, too, now, dyed the same as her hair.

“That’s… That’s near Clegane Hall, isn’t it? Or it’s on the way?”

Sandor’s answering glare might as well have sliced out her tongue for how swiftly she fell silent, the message received. It wasn’t the first time she’d tried to pry into his past life, his childhood. He supposed he only had himself to blame; he’d told her about his scars ages ago.

Instead of talking, he clanked just out of sight and undid his breeches, exhaling with relief as he pissed against a tree.

Undeterred, Sansa called out to him.

“Can’t we walk a bit today? To give the horse rest?”

“Can’t a man have a piss in peace?” Sandor barked back. He didn’t hear any more chirps from the little bird, something that grated him uncomfortably. A bit like guilt. But when he stepped back into the clearing she was blinking at him expectantly, a bright, hopeful expression on her face, a smile blooming to life at the sight of him.

Seven hells, she really  _ had _ warmed up to him. Continued exposure was a dangerous thing.

He made a noise of irritation low in his throat and began to roughly shove things into the saddlebags, avoiding Sansa’s keen attentions. 

It wasn’t until they were all packed up, Sansa stowing away what was left of their bread, that the Hound slapped the horse’s flank and began to walk.

“Whinge about your feet hurting and we’re back on the horse,” he snapped, his back to her. But Sansa was growing increasingly unbothered by his meanness; she was at his side in an instant looking pleased as punch, holding her ridiculous fucking doll and  _ humming _ to herself.

They walked a long while without speaking. Eventually, Sansa’s humming faded out and the only sounds were the birds and the horse. Sandor stole glances of her every now and then, watching the way she fingered the newly blackened strands of her hair, studying thoughtful moue of her mouth.

Not for the first time, he wondered what things occupied the lady Stark’s pretty head. A dangerous thing to wish for, because the instant she spoke, he wished she hadn’t.

  
“Do you remember, at the inn,” she started a moment later, her words measured. He glanced over at her with a sharp scoff.

“Aye, girl. I remember the bleedin’ inn.”

She chewed prettily on her lower lip. He did his best not to notice.

“At the inn… I heard what he said to you.”

Sandor didn’t answer. He knew which ‘he’ she meant. He didn’t want to talk about the dead innkeeper's words. Not with anyone, though least of all with her. If Sansa sensed as much, it didn’t stop her from pressing.

“The innkeeper, at the tables. I heard what he said -”

“Aye, you heard what he said,” Sandor snapped, giving the horse’s reins a sharp yank to turn him left. “And what of it?”

  
Sansa fell silent and for a moment, Sandor thought maybe, miraculously, his rudeness had worked. 

It hadn’t. 

When Sansa spoke again, her voice was soft as velvet, stripped of all judgment.

“I don’t think you’re sick.”

With a grit of his teeth, Sandor recalled those first few days when he’d been worried by her silence. He cursed himself for his stupidity. Perhaps if he didn’t answer, the lull would discourage her, and she’d drop the conversation all together.

But he had never been a lucky man.

“When I said no - days ago, weeks maybe - to bathing in the river -”

Sandor made a noise low in his throat like an angry tomcat, something like a warning sound. Sansa was undiscouraged.

“I’m not scared of you. Not - not like that.”

For some reason, this sent prickles of anger down the broad length of Sandor’s back, and he found himself slowing, reins still in hand, to glare at her.

  
“No, little bird? Not scared I’m going to come for your maidenhead, are you?”

She didn’t react to his harsh words. She rarely did anymore; that damned continued exposure had lessened the sharp of his bite, rubbed away the vestiges of her fear. She’d said it before - ‘I’m not scared of you’ - but Sandor was starting to believe it. He didn’t know whether to like it or hate it.

“No, I’m not scared of that,” Sansa said calmly, adopting the tone of someone dealing with a petulant child. Sandor ground his back molars together, turning away from her. Irritable as ever.

”I only said no because I - I don’t want to be away from you. Not for so long. Not after… the man in the woods.”

He heard the shudder in her voice and knew she must be thinking of the man’s hacked open skull. The axe that had done it was strapped peacefully against his hip and he touched it with absent fingers, remembering.

_ Killing is the sweetest thing there is, _ he’d told her once. When he thought of the murdered innkeeper, he knew no truer words.

“But… but if you were nearby as I bathed…”

His footsteps stuttered and he turned toward her, taken aback. His expression was screwed up, defensive and harsh, the rebuke readied on his tongue.

“I mean no impropriety,” Sansa was quick to say, her cheeks blooming with flattering color. He thought of what the drunkard had said:  _ something sweet and juicy for you to eat. _ His eyes dropped for a moment to her mouth, the full berry-red of her mouth, until he jerked his chin forward.

“I just - I just haven’t bathed in ages, and it would be very gallant of you and I would appreciate it ever so much. If it please -“

“I’m not fucking  _ gallant _ ,” Sandor interrupted snappishly, staring ahead as they walked. “I’m not a  _fucking_ knight.”

Sansa didn’t have an answer for this. Silence pressed between them, her disappointment uncomfortable against his shoulders.  _ Curse this bitch _ , he thought viciously, gritting his teeth again before answering.

“I’ll sit by. As long as you stop talking to me like I’m a bloody Lannister.”

His scowl deepened as he mumbled, “‘If it please,’ for fuck’s sake.”

He caught her fleeting, triumphant smile out of the corner of his eye.

All he could hope for now was that it would be days before they found a stream. He needed time to prepare for it - the idea of the little bird, naked behind him, wringing the black from her lovely hair as water sluiced over her hips and breasts…

But, of course, he had never been a lucky man.

It was only hours, not days, that they came across a river. Sansa exclaimed when she saw it, already pulling the braid out of her hair. Sandor had still not gotten used to the dark of it; it made her look severe, moody. But nothing about her was moody now.

He led the horse to the bank as behind him, Sansa pulled off her boots. She was chattering happily all the while -

“- hot springs at Winterfell, and we’d bathe outside all the time. Sometimes just for leisure, all of us together as children, even Theon and Jon -“

Sandor half-listened as he scanned to woods around them, searching for any signs of life. But they seemed to be alone, well and truly. Just the pair of them. Him and the little bird, naked. The thought had him as on edge as if they’d been surrounded by a dozen armed men.

Sansa had fallen silent and Sandor chanced a glance over his shoulder. Her beige skirts were hiked up to her thighs and she was wading into the water, smiling as it made little curls and eddies around her shins. He was struck by how womanly she looked; not the little bird he’d known in the castle, singing hollowly from her gilded cage. And not the dreamy, wide-eyed child he’d glimpsed at Winterfell.

A woman grown, flayed of innocence by a cruel king and an honorable father. But some innocence still remained; it lived in her smile, in the delighted surprise of her laugh as a bright red fish darted by. 

When she glanced up to meet Sandor’s eyes, still smiling, he knew with an unexpected intensity that he would have slaughtered everyone in the Red Keep to keep her safe. That he’d fall on his own sword if she asked while smiling at him like that.

Dangerous thoughts.

“Will you bathe, too?”

The invitation was shy and it took Sandor a moment to realize the implication of what she’d just asked. He exhaled a rough breath in a stab and turned away from her again, settling down on the bank to clean his already-gleaming sword.

“No, little bird. I’ll keep watch. Be quick.”

She made no answer. Instead, the next thing he heard was the unmistakable rustle of her dress being pulled away, and then the musical splashing of stirred up water. She sighed, happily; his entire body was taught as a nocked bow.

He was backed up enough as it was. There were no whorehouse stops when leading a lady through forests; there were no chances to beat his cock into submission. There was just shared space and propriety, both of which had crowded his urges painfully low in his groin.

“Is there soap?” Sansa asked, cracking the invisible barriers he was busy building in his mind. Sandor grunted and stood, rummaging around in the saddlebag until he found the chalky bar of soap. For a moment he thought of warning her - ‘I’m turning now’ - but he wasn’t some fucking green boy, and she had asked him for it.

He wasn’t prepared for what he saw.

Sansa Stark stood before him, naked and wet, like something out of a song. Like some ethereal nymph - no, better. Like some holy hallucination..

Her hair was still dark as night where it fell in wet stripes over her exposed collarbones. The sunlight made a kaleidoscope over the water clinging to her naked body; her breasts were high and round, the pink of her nipples dark against pale skin. Her stomach was flat, tight, the dark of her navel above the waterline. And the water itself, lapping at her hips, doing nothing to disguise the hair she  _ hadn’t _ dyed…

Sandor stared for a long pause, only to realize the little bird was staring back.

Her cheeks and chest were reddening prettily under his scrutiny. Her hands twitched at her sides as though she might cover herself, but she didn’t. She just stood, bold as day, as Sandor’s eyes ran over her like hands.

“The soap,” she finally said, soft as a kiss. Sandor didn’t chance coming closer; he tossed it to her and she caught it, hesitating a moment before beginning to run it over her skin.

His entire body was overwarm. He moved to turn, but Sansa’s voice gripped his attention like curled fingers -

“Don’t - don’t turn away.”

He didn’t know what to think. The little bird wanted to play with him - she was teasing him, he realized with a stab of dismay. Taking pleasure from his slack-jawed attention. Exercising her power over him, in what little way she could.

Anger lanced through his jaw as he ground his teeth, and he took a heavy, threatening step forward. There was still a wide berth between them but her hands twitched again at her sides. The idea of her wanting to hide from him - after inviting him in, no less - cracked like furious lightning in his gut.

“It’s wicked, to bait dogs,” he growled, eyes flashing. “Do you know what happens to little birds who fly around the heads of hounds, pecking at their eyes?”

Sansa hesitated before lifting her chin in a display of wavering defiance.

“You won’t hurt me,” she said, not for the first time, though this time it rang more like reminder than assertion. 

“That so?” Sandor challenged, raking his eyes down her body. “Maybe you’d like me to - maybe you think you want it, a hound to take you like a bitch.”

Sansa’s entire body shivered, water droplets still cutting curved lines down the length of her. There was a beat of tense silence, and then she spoke, cheeks burning,

“You’re trying to scare me, but you’re not scary. Not to me. You’re the only good man I know - the only one in King’s Landing. You saved me, time and again, and -“

Sandor jerked away, shaking his head. That was it, then. She  _ fancied _ him because he’d shown her an ounce of humanity - because he was the only man left who hadn’t beat her, threatened her.

She was still an innocent with daydreams clouding her head.

“Fuck King’s Landing,” he spat, vitriol thickening his accent. “Fuck the king. And  _ fuck  _ good men. There are no good men, only dead men and skilled killers. Remember that, girl.” He had his back to her again, was untying the horse. “You’re a highborn. I’m a dog. Save yourself for some oiled-up lord.”

He didn’t look around again, not even as he heard the dolorous sound of water running down her body.

“Dress. Can't stay still for long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how long it takes to get places in Westeros but I feel like neither did D&D. So, all distances/places are 100% arbitrary plot devices.
> 
> Also, thanks to a_lady, snacklish, Saoirse97, vulncrasanentur, Veronica, and Reiselust for commenting - yall are the reason there's another chapter today!
> 
> And to Direwaggle42, blood of my blood, moon and of my life, your comments detailing your favorite bits of each chapter are the best part of this whole thing. I love you ALL!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa bleeds.

Sansa didn’t know why she’d done it.

It had been foolish, she knew that now. Whatever she’d hoped to gain from it wasn’t worth the glint in his eyes, flashing like the steel of his sword as he’d accused her of baiting him. She had become accustomed to his anger, his eternally sour disposition, but this had been different. This had looked like hurt.

But I wasn’t baiting him, she thought to herself, her neck still hot from the sting of his rebuke. It’s not that she’d wanted him to touch her, necessarily. She’d only wanted him to see her. The idea of it had come to her in a thrill, settling between her legs in a spread of heat as she’d rinsed her hair and peered at him.

He had been sitting, facing away. Keeping watch, just as she’d asked.

She supposed, now, that there had been some curiosity to her request. He always snapped and barked but he tended to do what she asked, very nearly always.

And so she’d asked him to see her.

The Queen had told her once that a woman’s best weapon was between her legs. Sansa hadn’t understood it until she’d watched the Hound’s eyes drop to that spot, the unburned side of his lips parted. It was the closest to reverent she’d ever seen him; the most vulnerable, the most ardent. It had made her feel powerful.

... At least until it hadn’t.

Shame still prickled at the nape of her neck. He was ignoring her, even as they rode together with an arm hooked about his metal waist.

I regret it, she told herself solemnly, as though in saying it, she could make it true. But it wasn’t true, not all the way.

Once, Shae had told her that coupling could be as pleasurable for the woman as for the man. Sansa had scarcely believed it.

“But women bleed,” she’d said, horrified, only to be rewarded with another of Shae’s mysterious little smiles.

“Only the once. And it is not so good, if you are just stabbed again and again by his cock - but if he touches you properly… if you’re with someone you want to touch you, someone who makes you feel warm and hungry down here…”

“Shae!” Sansa had interrupted, horrified, as Shae’s hand slipped down to cup herself through her dress. Shae had only laughed.

Sansa regretted her prudishness now. She had a dozen questions she wanted to ask Shae, a dozen that had sprouted into being ever since the night in the inn, when she’d seen that secret dark hair at the Hound’s gape of the Hound’s tunic.

Having him see her, naked in the stream, had made Sansa feel… warm, and hungry.

Her cheeks were heating again and she glanced up at the Hound. For all her inner turmoil, it was as though to him, she didn’t exist. He was staring straight ahead, his expression neutral, the reins looped around his armored hands.

The sky was beginning to change, the afternoon sun impaling itself on the treetops and leaking out color like a soft-boiled egg. It would be evening soon, and then the Hound would have to pay attention to her.

But he didn’t.

The few times Sansa tried to coax conversation, he either ignored her or answered with a grunt. He didn’t even chide her for her humming, or cast withering glances at the way she clutched her father’s doll. In fact, he looked at her as little as possible.

By the third day of it, Sansa was beginning to regret her stunt in the stream.

For the first time ever, she was pleased for the event that triggered his renewed goodwill.

They had fallen asleep as usual - a short distance apart, the ashes of their fire between them. The Hound was lying on his side facing her, his armor a neat bulwark at his back, and Sansa slept on her back, her face washed colorless by the starlight.

She had been suffering nightmares when it happened - violent dreams, ugly memories that twisted her stomach up in painful knots. She stirred in her sleep, restlessly murmuring, only to slowly awaken to an unpleasant sensation between her legs.

Too late she realized what it was, jerking more fully awake and flinging the dirty white cloak away from her. Blood stained the front of her dress a deep, black-red, and she cursed softly at the sight.

It was a much different reaction than the Hound, who blinked his eyes blearily open, saw the blood, and leapt to his feet with his greatsword in hand.

“Archer _cunts_ , you fucking _cowards_ -“ he thundered, wild-eyed and feral as he swung his head this way and that, searching for invisible attackers.

“No - no! I’m not hurt, I’m just - just bleeding.”

It took a moment for the Hound to understand but when he did, he looked relieved. Relieved, and then faintly panicked.

“First blood,” he said uneasily, rubbing his hand along his jaw and lowering his sword. He was avoiding looking at her, as though he hadn’t seen blood a thousand times before.

Sansa couldn’t help it; she snorted a laugh, one unbecoming of a lady. The Hound scowled.

“It’s not my first blood,” she told him flatly, gathering her skirts and moving gingerly toward the water’s edge. They had chosen to camp here because of the stagnant pool not so far off.

This seemed to surprise the Hound, who turned to her with narrowed eyes, an unasked question in them.

“Shae and I flipped the mattress every time,” Sansa explained with a shrug, wading into the water and pressing her soiled skirts into it.

The Hound’s scowl deepened, as though he were trying to reconcile this level of dishonesty with what he knew of Sansa.

“But the king -“ he started, doubtlessly about to point out how severely Joffrey would have punished her.

Sansa’s answer was out before she could think twice, a glint of mischief in her eye.

“Fuck the king.”

She had never heard the Hound laugh before - not properly, not like this - but it was so loud and so booming that it set the roosting birds above into twittering flight.

After that, he talked to her again.

He rode into a nearby village to buy her a new dress, and came back with buttery ropes of braided bread, two secondhand dresses just as hideous as the first, and -

“Lemon cakes!” Sansa gasped when she unwrapped the cloth, looking up at the Hound in delighted surprise.

He was busy making a new fire - they were getting further north every day now - and his head was bowed, but she didn’t have to see him to know the way he looked when he was trying to conceal a smile.

“A trick that bold deserved a reward.” He glanced up at her, the burned side of his face gnarled with amusement. “How long?”

“Nearly the entire time,” Sansa said around a mouthful of cake, sounding quite pleased with herself. “I’ve long been a woman - they all just thought I was broken.”

The Hound huffed, pleased, and shook his head, leaning back as the kindling caught. He always leaned so far away from it, as though even the little sparks might leap out and eat him up. Sansa had gotten used to being the one to tend to the fire, and the Hound was the one to put it out.

“Clever,” the Hound said, meeting her eye with pride softening the corners of his. “Hurry up, little bird. Today, we ride for Fairmarket.”

Fairmarket - Sansa knew what that meant. The Hound had been promising her for days that they would sleep in an inn there, that she they would have a proper meal. Fairmarket was far enough from King’s Landing and close enough to Winterfell that survival - that safety - felt within reach.

She beamed as she took her new dresses from the Hound, her soggy skirts still in hand.

  
“Thank you,” she told him, meaning it - meaning it so much that she pushed up onto her toes and pressed a kiss to the gnarled, scarred side of his broad face.

Had she not known any better, she might’ve sworn she saw the dog blush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if periods squick you out, but this was my shameless attempt at aging her up 🙃
> 
> Thank you to AshleyP43, legslegs, JMBH, Kezzie369, DarkStar, Veronica, a_lady, Selenity_Rosado_Moonsnake, KaylaP, lovebeyondmeasure, and Saoirse97 for taking the time out to comment, it means so much to me and your words make this so much fun!
> 
> And to Direwaggle42, who writes a small book each time. I love.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound holds her pieces together.

Sandor wished they’d never ridden into Fairmarket, wished they’d never left the somber emptiness of the forest.

The girl had not stopped crying for two nights, nor had she taken any food.

Not since she’d overheard the man in the tavern, his accent thickly north, his beard peppered with gray.

“It was a wedding - a  _ wedding _ , fine as you please - and th’King in the North was there with his foreign bride -”

  
Sandor had gone still to listen, paying little thought to the fact that Sansa was listening too. At least until he’d heard the rest.

“-  _ massacred _ them - slit the Lady Stark’s throat, got a dozen arrows in th’ Wolf-King - then sewed his direwolf’s head  _ onto _ the boy-king’s body. It was vicious, it was, and all the Stark bannermen slaughtered while they were too deep in their cups to defend themselves - no honor…”

Sandor didn’t need to hear any more.

His attention was on Sansa, whose face had drained of color. She was staring at the man speaking, her mouth a shocked little ‘o.’

“Enough,” Sandor said sharply, pushing his bench back with a scrape. But it was as though he hadn’t spoken; Sansa didn’t acknowledge him at all, instead darting out of her seat and over to the man speaking.

Sandor’s hand jumped to his shortsword as he stood, his shadow falling over her.

“Did you see this? Is it true?” Sansa asked the stranger, who startled at her appearance. He didn’t answer straight away and she seized him by the upper arm, shaking it.

“The Starks -  _ what of them _ ?”

“Dead, girl - all of them,” the man answered, bewildered as he wrenched his arm out of her grip. “Everyone knows it. The Lord beheaded by the king, the Young Wolf and the Lady slaughtered by the Freys. The boys were burned alive by the Ironborn, the daughters long gone -“

Sansa never heard the rest. Instead, her knees gave out and Sandor darted forward, catching her before she hit the ground.

As he sat by her bed keeping vigil, a quiet, dark part of him hoped for hopeless things.

_ Maybe she’ll never wake up _ .

It was a terrible thing to want - a terrible, hateful thing. But was it crueler to wish peace on the little bird, or to see if she could still fly in a world without love?

Sandor’s plans for himself were formless whispers, shadows chasing their own tails as he stared at the part of her sleeping lips.

_ If she is not here… _

He fingered his shortsword, watching as the little bird slept. Her hair was shadow-dark against the pillow. Something low within him ached at the sight of its changed color, dull and different in the moonlight.

_ If she does not wake, I will follow her out of this world to protect her in the next _ .

But she woke.

When she did, there was a tiny, crystalline moment where the bleary blue of her eyes found his and she smiled - smiled like the world beyond was a dream and pain couldn’t reach through a barred door.

But the memory came quickly and her eyes went distant, glassy and dimmed as she curled up tight and sobbed until sound failed her.

Sandor offered everything. Food, water, sweet wine. Her doll. Cakes. He offered kindly - as kindly as he could, with gruff ‘little birds’ and sharp reminders that it did no one any good if she joined her family in the ground. 

And he offered harshly - threats that if she didn’t drink, he’d pour it down her throat. Little punctures as he asked what her mother would think, the honorable Lady Catelyn, to know the new Lady of Winterfell was curled up in a Fairmarket inn with a traitor-dog, crying her eyes out and starving herself to an early grave.

None of it worked. None of it until the third day, when Sandor had come back into the room after fetching ale and fresh food from the kitchens, to find Sansa staring at him.

She was lying on her side, her hands tucked under her cheek. Her eyes and nose were red from crying. Seeing her like this felt violently intimate and Sandor turned away, busying himself with shedding his weapons.

And then -

“I don’t know what to call you.”

Sandor paused midway through unbuckling his scabbard.

“That so?” he said, confusion creasing his brow as he resumed stripping away his fangs.

“In my head, I call you the Hound… but I don’t think I’ve ever called you anything. Not out loud.”

Her voice was congested with grief, and she stared at the wall opposite as she spoke. Sandor took a long pull from his pint of ale.

“Don’t care what you call me. Long as it isn’t  _ ser _ .”

He stumped over to his seat and settled back in, ignoring the protesting of his back. It didn’t do to sit for so many days straight, but he could hardly do anything else. Not when the little bird had broken wings.

Sansa shifted feebly beneath the bedclothes.

“I should call you something,” she pressed quietly. Sandor made a sound of dismissal low in his throat.

“No, I should - you’re all I have. All I have left in the whole world.”

Her words, so melancholy and defeated, dripped like hot candle wax down his spine. They burned for a moment and clung; she did not sound pleased, but she had called him hers.

It was dangerous to be as fiercely honored by it as he was.

“I don’t think so, little bird. Your bastard brother is still breathing, and your sister -“

Sansa exhaled a shuddering breath.

“I was horrible to them, both of them. Jon hates me, surely, and Arya has no love for me, even if - even if -“

Her voice broke and she heaved a dry sob. Sandor heard the words unspoken:  _ even if she’s alive _ .

He took another long pull from his ale and looked at her, grounded and songless, heartbreak clapped over her mouth like a hand.

_ If I ever meet a Frey _ , he thought with vicious ardency,  _ I’ll kill him slow, and bring him to the little bird in bits. I’ll kill every last man in Riverrun if  _ -

“I think, if it doesn’t offend… I think I’d like to call you Sandor.”

Hearing his name cushioned by her lovely tongue filled Sandor with a strange, longing melancholy, bitter like oversteeped tea. He jerked his chin in a nod all the same.

“Aye. Call me what you like. But you have family beyond an ugly hound. The brother at the Night’s Watch, I can take you there-“

“No,” Sansa interrupted, tone still listless though it was firmer than before.

Sandor ground his teeth together, doing his best to keep his irritation at bay.

“We won’t make it - we’ll never make it. It’s too far, the wall. And cold. We haven’t got supplies, we haven’t got furs -“

“We can buy furs,” Sandor said, fingering the edge of his pint. “Got gold enough still, don’t you worry -“

“I hear them talking below. Through the floor. I know the Ironborn are still at Winterfell, I know the north is no place for a Stark right now -“

Sandor started to interrupt but Sansa silenced him with a flickering look, her eyes shining with tears.

“My aunt Lysa, at the Vale. It’s not too far. If you would, Sandor -“ 

She spoke his name carefully, as if trying it on for size, the rest of her words giving it a berth as though it might stain them,

“- perhaps we could ride northeast? To the Eyrie?”

Sandor’s lips thinned in thought. The plan displeased him and he made no effort to hide it, scowling as he was into his ale.

“Please,” Sansa pushed, soft and miserable.

“I said I’d not give you to anyone whose name wasn’t Stark,” he reminded her, gruff but quiet. Sansa’s answering laugh was devoid of any humor, cut with a fresh wave of tears.

“Don’t you see? There’s no Starks left. None at all.”

Sandor had no answer for that. He listened to the familiar sounds of her weeping as he took another pull from his ale. When he spoke again, it was resigned.

“Aye. We’ll ride for the Bloody Gate. But you eat first, girl, or it’s your body I’ll be laying at your aunt’s feet.”

Sansa gave him a watery smile, one that didn’t meet the dull blue of her eyes, and nodded.

“Yes,” she agreed in a whisper, her eyelids heavy as she clutched her blanket. It was the white one, grimy as ever, but she pressed it to her cheek as if it was soft as a lamb’s ear.

“Yes, very well. Tomorrow, I eat, and we ride.”

Her eyes closed and her breathing slowed.

_ Asleep,  _ Sandor thought, keeping quiet as possible as he began to shed his boots, his leather armor. He stood and turned both bolts on the door, stretching his back and preparing for another night of poor sleep in the hard chair.

He had just blown out the candles when Sansa’s small voice split the dark, wavering with emotion.

“Sandor… Will you hold me? … Please?”

Sandor could barely make her out in the bed. The moon was a sliver, the stars hidden by clouds. There was no light but the weak glint from her eyes. The night felt like a secret. Secret enough that he found himself agreeing wordlessly, climbing into the bed and turning his body to face hers, just as he did every night on the forest floor.

But this time, she came to him.

Her hands made tight fists against his chest, clutching fistfuls of his tunic, and he felt the damp of her cheek where she pressed it to his shoulder. Great, shuddering sobs wracked her body.

“Shh, little bird,” Sandor murmured, his voice a deep rumble in his chest. “Shh. Enough. Sleep now.”

His hands trailed lightly up and down her spine, his chin resting atop her head. He tried and failed not to inhale the faded scent of bathing oils; he had gotten them for her, he knew their smell already, yet it was different when mixed with her sorrow and sweat.

“Sleep,” he repeated, spreading a single hand over the small of her back and pulling her in close. He did his best not to marvel at the feel of her spine beneath his hand, or the cinch of her waist, covered entirely by the spread of his fingers.

And when he was sure she was asleep, he pressed his burned mouth to the crown of her head in a chaste kiss, and fell into a deeper sleep than he’d had in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Shoshanacohen, Juliawantsbellarke, Gypsy28, Clementine19 (a delight), JMBH, and Reiselust for taking the time to leave a comment! I love you ❤️ 
> 
> And to Direwaggle42 who left me love from the road.
> 
> Yall are the best!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa thinks a lot.

For two days, Sansa had been gripped by misery, imagining.

Their deaths were vivid in her mind, as real as if she’d been there to see; as real as her father’s.

She saw it again, and again - the swing of Ilyn Payne’s sword, the garish way her father’s head rolled and rolled, only to be hoisted up gracelessly by the hair. It was an image seared into the side of her skull, a horror that resurfaced when her mind was at its most vulnerable.

And now she imagined her mother, her lovely, brave mother, who always looked upon her with such warmth and pride.

“My perfect lady,” her mother would say as she worked Sansa’s braids loose. “My sweet girl.”

Sansa saw it in her mind’s eye: the honorable Lady Stark’s throat slashed open, just as the Hound had opened the guard’s throat. Blood, a pour of it, and her final, gurgled breaths.

And Robb. Handsome Robb who had hair the same russet of hers, who was brave and gallant and kind, who teased her for her love of needlework and scolded Arya when she made Sansa cry.

She watched his body jerk as arrows pierced it, saw the way he collapsed onto the floor, how he twitched and faded out in a pool of his own blood and bile.

She could not think on little Bran and baby Rickon’s deaths. Even her cruelest thoughts could not touch them, young and pink-cheeked, dead by Theon Greyjoy’s hand.

Again and again she saw them murdered, until her eyes burned and there were no tears left. The Hound spoke to her sometimes; snapped at her to eat, scolded her. But mostly he watched her, and there was something in that, something as safe and comfortable as his old cloak tucked around her body.

When she asked him to hold her, she expected a rebuke. Mockery, maybe, or a reminder about her virtue. 

What she didn’t expect was the feel of his hands, overlarge and scarred, so gentle up and down her back. Or the slow rhythm of his breathing ghosting through her hair, very nearly in time with the steady  _ thud-thud  _ of his heart beneath her curled fingers.

She remembered wondering what it would be like to sleep beside him. That had been weeks ago - months, perhaps - at the first inn, the one that had run red.

_ Before _ , she thought.  _ Before my family were all dead. _

She had wondered if she would feel as safe beside the Hound as she had beside her father. A desperate thought, since after her father’s beheading, she had been certain she’d never feel safe again.

But she’d been wrong.

_ Thud, thud, thud,  _ beat the Hound’s heart, coaxing her into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, the Hound was as good as his word, and she as good as hers.

He was up before her, splashing water on his face and finishing the flagon of stale ale from the day before. His footsteps were heavy on the creaking floor. She’d barely opened her eyes when a plate of bread and jam was pushed onto the bed beside her, accompanied with a grunt from the Hound.

“Eat,” he snapped, tightening his leather armor. “Eat, and we ride.”

Sansa ate.

She ate while the Hound -  _ Sandor _ , she reminded herself, though it was still hard to think of him as anything but the king’s Hound - packed around her. He tossed her unsoiled dress and the worn pair of boots onto the bed, jerking his chin at the empty metal tub in the corner.

“They’ll be up with hot water in a minute. Left you something.”

She followed his eyes to the chair. The familiar sheathed dagger was on its seat, innocuous in its broken-in leather. Violent thoughts threatened at the edges of her mind - her father, her mother, Robb - but she pushed them away, returning the Hound’s gaze.

The phantom beat of his heavy heart throbbed beneath her palms, even as he stood a room away.

“Thank you.”

He shrugged and turned from her, hauling the loaded saddlebags over his shoulder.

“Bathe quickly,” was his only answer, the door shutting behind him with a soft  _ snick _ .

A girl came up with the water, bucket after bucket, until the metal tub was full and steaming. It was a luxury that had cost the Hound a pretty penny, Sansa knew; she could tell by the deferential way the girl peered at her when she thought Sansa wasn’t looking that she was trying to figure out who Sansa was, of what great house.

_ If only she knew _ , Sansa thought bitterly as she sank into the tub. The water scalded her skin and turned it a hot red but she welcomed it, imagining that the heat of it could burn away every bit of hurt, every shard of guilt. Burn it all away until she was new again. Until she was someone else.

“I wish I really  _ was _ Tilly from Flea Bottom,” she said under her breath, tracing her fingertips along the surface of the water. It was sudsy from where she’d washed her hair, piles of soft bubbles making tiny currents around her touch.

She smiled a little at the memory of their lie - the Hound as her father. Such a strange idea. She almost laughed aloud to think of him as a father, gruff and angry as he was, but it was too early to laugh, and she didn’t  _ like _ the idea of the Hound as her father.

Again, she thought of how it had felt to sleep so close to him. Safe, like sleeping beside her father. Safe, but… different.

_ Warm and hungry, _ Shae had told her. 

Shame flooded Sansa as she realized what she was feeling. Her mother and brother, barely even lost to her, and she sat in a hot tub, protected in the south, lusting after Sandor Clegane, the Lannister’s sworn shield.

“Idiot,” she hissed at herself, and finished her bathing quickly.

Despite her moment of weakness, the bath did her good. The loss of her family still sat in her gut like heavy stones, but she met the Hound in the stables with a new hardness to her eyes. He hoisted her up into the saddle without a word and she clung to him as they rode, the village shrinking behind them until it was toylike in the morning light, until it was just a smear in the distance, until it was gone.

Only when the sun had sank low in the sky and they’d stopped for rest did Sansa realize with a shudder of nausea what she’d forgotten.

“No,” she said, darkened brow furrowing. “No, no, no-”

The Hound was sitting with his back against a tree, tearing day-old chicken off a bone with his teeth. He glanced up at her distress, spitting out a hunk of gristle.

“Settle down, girl,” he growled around a second mouthful of chicken.

Sansa ignored him, stil pawing through the saddlebags.

“It’s - it’s not here.” Panic wrapped her voice as she dug past two of the Hound’s daggers, her velvet sack of sewing odds and ends, and a crust loaf of bread. “It’s gone, it’s  _ gone _ \- I left it, we have to go back -“

“We’re a day’s ride out, we’re not going back - fuck’s sake,  _ settle down _ !”

“ _ No!” _

Sansa’s eyes flashed as she rounded on the Hound, anger coming off of her in waves. For the first time ever, he looked cowed; he blinked at her, his eyes very wide, the near-naked chicken bone limp in his massive hands.

Strangely satisfied, Sansa resumed her frantic search, only to let out a cry of relief the instant she found it.

“The fucking  _ blanket _ ?” the Hound observed, more irritable than before, no doubt because of her scolding. Sansa didn’t acknowledge him; she had the greyed cloak pressed to her face, was inhaling the familiar scent of it and surreptitiously dabbing away the wet of her eyes.

“All that over a fucking  _ blanket _ . D’you know who cries over a fucking blanket? Babes, and cunts. That’s who.”

“It’s not a blanket,” Sansa protested, though her words were muffled by the cloak. The Hound didn’t seem to care either way; he only scoffed a derisive sound and then spent the rest of the night ignoring her, occasionally muttering about ‘whinging little girls’ and ‘spoiled highborn ladies.’

But for all his blustering and sulking, when it came time to sleep, he didn’t turn Sansa away.

He had set up just the same as every other night: on his side, facing her, armor at his back. His horse was tied close by, his sword within an arm’s length. And Sansa, a few feet away, clutching the cloak and dreading the horrors sleep would bring.

This time when she asked, the Hound didn’t answer. He just held an arm out and waited for her to settle into his front, the steady  _ thud-thud _ of his heart as familiar as a lullaby.

They slept this way the next night and every night after.

Until the night they were found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action is coming, I promise.
> 
> Thank you to Veronica, lovebeyondmeasure, DarkStar, legslegs, Kezzie369, Saoirse97, and a_lady for taking the time to leave comments! I love yall for sticking with me.
> 
> And to Direwaggle42 as always and now JMBH for leaving tiny books for me to read 💕
> 
> The Eyrie is still a long way off...


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound steals a sword.

“Throw it again,” Sandor instructed, picking the dagger up out of the dirt and pressing it back into Sansa’s hand. She was frustrated - she frustrated easily when it came to her new lessons. 

High color was slapped across each of her cheeks and she was growing sweaty at the temples, little corkscrews of her blackened hair loose around her ears. The roots of her hair were growing in red; they’d run out of paste over a week ago. The black was fading out, her vivid hair threatening to show every day. Sandor knew he needed to stop in at a village and find more, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it just yet.

“I can’t,” she said, glaring accusingly at the tree trunk as though it was to blame for her inability to hit a target. “No matter how much I practice, I’m rubbish at this, at fighting -”

“Shut up. Throw it again.”

Sansa shot him a glare but readied for another throw, putting her feet just the way he’d taught her and throwing her shoulders back. He watched her chest rise as she took in a deep breath, saw the scrunch of her brow as she focused on the nicked spot in the tree trunk -

  
She loosed the knife. It cut a clean arc through the air before burying itself shallowly in the soft wood.

Sansa’s irritation was replaced immediately with a clap of her hands and a bright, shocked laugh.

“I did it!” she exclaimed, turning to Sandor who was already loping forward to yank the dagger free.

“You missed,” he pointed out, gesturing with the breadth of his hand to the distance between the target point and the hit point. But he was smiling all the same, as much as he could with his eternally dour expression, and it seemed to be enough for the girl.

“Again. This time, don’t miss.”

“Can’t we practice the other lessons again? Where to slide the blade? Between which ribs and -“

“Quiet,” Sandor snapped, going very rigid. Sansa’s mouth pinched into a shape of offense but she obeyed, watching him impatiently, his dagger held fast in her hands.

The impatience cleared when she heard it, too:

Singing.

And not just any singing.

“The fucking Brotherhood,” Sandor growled, his veins fizzing with hot adrenaline the way they always did at the first threat of violence. The way they did when the little bird pressed against him in the night.

“Over here, girl. On the horse. I get cut down, you ride to-“

“- To the first place I see with northmen banners. Yes, I know. You won’t go down. You never go down.”

Sandor privately agreed, though her life was not something he was willing to gamble with. He jerked his chin at the horse and she hurried, hoisting herself up into its saddle and splitting her legs awkwardly apart over its back.

_ I should’ve had her practice riding more _ , Sandor thought, irascible as ever, as he rested one hand on the hilt of his shortsword and waited for their visitors to pass by.

They didn’t pass by.

It was four of them, cresting the mossy little hill in a line, their curious expressions replaced with delight as they realized who they’d found.

“Sandor Clegane,” the tallest of the men called out, jovial as if it was a meeting of two friends. He had a bow strapped to his back; Sandor couldn’t see any arrows. “As I live and breathe.”

“Aye. You want to keep doing either, keep walking.”

Two of the men swapped uneasy glances. The leader only chuckled and took a step closer.

“We’ve never met, of course - I’ve only heard of you in song. They make you out to be much more terrifying than you are, and much milder looking - no offense meant, of course. To you or your lovely companion.”

The man stopped and flashed Sansa a warm smile over Sandor’s shoulder. Judging by the way he held it a beat too long, Sandor assumed she didn’t return it.

_ Good girl _ .

“You know, your dead king put out quite a price on your head - oh yes! Didn’t you hear? Choked, at his own wedding. A tragedy, I’m sure.”

Sandor’s surprise must have shown, his or the little bird’s, since the man kept glancing between the two. Joffrey, dead; he felt a ripple of savage satisfaction, though he couldn’t dwell on it now.

“That so,” is all he said, keeping a wary eye on the other three men. They had begun to slowly, casually, fan out around him.

Behind him, the horse gave a low, uneasy whinny, and Sansa shushed him.

“It is. But even with the death of the king, the price on your head remains - was doubled, even. Two  _ hundred _ silvers. That’s quite a lot of money. You understand it’s not personal; we’ll be kind to your… friend.”

_ Fucking Lannisters and their endless fucking gold _ .

“Thought the Brotherhood served the Lord of Light. Thought you didn’t need money,” Sandor said, hyper aware of the men moving out, making a circle around him. Around Sansa.

“Ah, but we are not with the Brotherhood any longer. We are truly free men now, serving no lords - of light or otherwise.” 

The leader stepped forward as he spoke, fanning out his hands, showing the gleaming metal of what was unmistakably fine, stolen steel. Sandor’s eyes clung to it a beat longer before moving back to the bastard’s smiling face.

“Deserters of deserters,” Sandor said in his hard rasp. “Know what I call those?”

He spat on the ground at the leader’s feet.

“Cunts.”

The tension shattered into action.

Sandor turned on the spot, slicing his shortsword through the air as two men descended on him from behind. He caught one in the chest, hacking him through. The other twisted out of the way and came at him in a rush, just as the others sprinted towards him.

The horse whinnied again and reared up; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sansa clinging to its great neck. And then there was nothing but the heart-pumping surge of adrenaline, the wild race toward survival.

It was over quickly.

Or at least it felt quick to Sandor, who ended it with one knee on the forest floor, the body of the laughing leader skewered on his greatsword. His shortsword was feet away, jammed through the eye of another. A quick way to go.

He hauled himself up and pressed his boot to the body on his sword, pulling it free and wiping it off on his tunic. His shortsword came next, cleaned just as cursorily. And then Sansa.

She had dismounted the horse and was standing at the edge of the ring of bodies, her face pale as she wrung her hands together.

“ _ Sandor,” _ she said, emphasizing it as though she’d been saying it over and over. Belatedly, Sandor realized she had.

“It’s alright, little bird. ‘S alright.”

“No - no, you’re  _ bleeding _ !” 

He followed the point of her finger only to find with a shock of nasty bewilderment that she was right - he  _ was  _ bleeding, and badly. There was a deep wound at his side that was blackening his tunic with blood. The instant he saw it, pain lanced through his ribs.

“I’ve had worse,” he said, truthful though he felt suddenly lightheaded. “Come, girl. We’ll ride until nightfall.”

“Absolutely not!” Sansa sounded horrified at the mere suggestion. “Hound - Sandor - you’re bleeding  _ badly.  _ Look,  I know how to handle this, I can stitch it up. We can walk a bit, away from… from  _ them _ . But no more riding.”

Sandor blinked at her, then glanced down at his side. He pressed his hand to it; it came away bright red. Too red. He sighed in resignation.

“Fine, girl.”

As retribution, he made her wait while he pilfered all the ale from the bodies, and that shining steel sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thx to my #1 Direwaggle42 for continuing to make layering this behemoth of a 'one-shot' (lol) worthwhile.
> 
> And thank you to vulncrasanentur who nearly got in trouble at her Real Life Job to read this nonsense.
> 
> Also, I am infamously terrible at surprises, and a very good chapter is coming up, so.... Who knows. I may go completely apeshit and post three chapters in one damn day. #holla


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa stabs the Hound again, and again, and again, and again...

Sansa had expected the Hound would make a poor patient, but she had not accounted for  _ this _ .

Every time she came at him with the needle, he snapped at her. 

First, because he wanted to ‘let the bad blood out.’ Second, because her ‘sewing needles weren’t clean,’ as though his sweat and grime was any cleaner. And third, because he ‘wasn’t fucking ready,’ and if she had any heart at all, she’d ‘let him get piss-fucking drunk first.’

“Do you want my help or not?” Sansa burst out, cross and pink-cheeked from where she’d been leaning close to the fire. She’d been heating her needles over it, sterilizing them for the  _ third _ time, as the Hound drained his fourth cask of drink.

“Wasn’t ale,” he told her, ignoring her question completely. “Rum - ‘s  _ rum _ .” And then he laughed, a tiny, burbled laugh that very nearly sounded like a giggle…

And Sansa realized the Hound was drunk.

“Hard to get molasses out of water,” he continued, his words weighted down by the liquor. “Harder still to make it taste better than piss.”

Sansa didn’t know whether to laugh or chide. She’d never seen the Hound drunk before; it was quite a sight. It took some of the fearsomeness away from his face and slackened it pleasantly, slumping his shoulders and loosening his hands. Not to mention his hair, usually laid so carefully over the scarred half of his face, was in disarray. Sansa could see each warp and fold of scar tissue, all the strange new skin that didn’t match. She did her best not to look, unwilling to puncture his uncharacteristic jolliness.

Apparently her best wasn’t quite good enough.

“The fuck you staring at, girl?” he snapped, before dissolving into a rumbling mess of chuckles. “Bet you’ve never seen a drunk dog before - no, not my little bird, sweet as a winter peach. Such a  _ good  _ girl, the lady Stark.”

Sansa’s cheeks were still warm from the fire, that was all. Just the fire. It had nothing to do with the way he was looking at her, all gruff affection, or the fact he’d just called her ‘his’ little bird.

“You’re raving,” was all Sansa said, smiling through her dismissal as she laid her needles and thread carefully out on a clean scrap of cloth.

“Look, it’s all gone now - you’ve had enough.” She plucked the cask from the Hound’s slack fingers and tipped it upside down; nothing came out. The Hound looked at it, forlorn. 

“It’s time, Hou - er, Sandor. Take off your tunic. I’ll work quickly.”

The Hound mumbled something under his breath that was doubtlessly uncharitable before beginning to slowly pull away his blood-stained clothing. He ground his teeth together as he moved, wincing in pain so hard Sansa could see the jump of muscles in his jaw, and swore harshly when he had it up to his neck.

“Here,” Sansa started, reaching forward to help, but the Hound gave a noise like a growl and finished it himself.

“Don’t need help undressing,” he said, more petulant than pugnacious as he threw the ruined shirt into the fire. It was almost… childlike.

Sansa bit down on her lower lip to keep from smiling outright and gathered her tools up in their cloth.

“We’ll need to clean it and dress it,” she said, more to herself than the Hound as she settled down at his side. Her eyes flickered briefly over his torso; she’d never seen him this undressed before, though she’d wondered about it time and time again.

He was somehow leaner than she’d thought, but she supposed it was the armor that made him look so bulky. What she  _ had  _ expected was muscle, but not so much of it; his chest was cut like marble and his stomach very taut, flexing as he grumbled about fire and ‘fucking zealot cunts.’

And all of it covered with dark hair, straight down past his navel, where a trail of it snaked below his waistband.

Sansa kept her head down as she began to clean the wound, hiding the renewed red of her cheeks.

The Hound hissed as she dabbed a thick, yellow paste into the gash, swearing harshly and twisting around to look.

“What’re you doing?” he demanded, a definite slur to his words as he blinked down at his side. His eyes were unfocused.

“Ointment. To clear out the start of rot,” Sansa explained patiently, screwing the top back on the little pot. “You’re the one who put it in the saddle bag, surely you should know what it does?”

Her bit of smug snark earned her a glare from the Hound and a sharp, barked command:

“Get the wineskin.  _ My  _ wineskin.”

She barely pressed the wine into his hand before he’d drank nearly half in one pull, wincing as he stretched against the ointment’s steady burn. Still, his exhale was satisfied as he resettled against the tree.

“Good girl.”

Sansa met his eye for a moment before looking quickly back to her work. She had never been able to work out how it made her feel, when the Hound praised her like that. But it made her feel  _ something _ , low in her gut; something bold and dangerous, like the time she’d shown herself to him in the stream.

“This will hurt,” she told him, shaking off those thoughts as she instead focused on the split in his skin. He only grunted in reply and tipped the wineskin up again, and Sansa began to sew.

It was painstaking work, but no moreso than she was accustomed to. It was a simple stitch, but she had never sewed human flesh. Knowing how deep to go, how close together the stitches should be - she didn’t tell the Hound but there was some trial and error involved, sticks and resticks and a few broken threads.

And all the while the Hound drank on, silent for spells and then suddenly very chatty, cursing the Brotherhood, cursing cowards. Cursing the king - ‘the  _ dead  _ king, worthless cunt’ - and cursing King’s Landing. Cursing his brother, and the Lannisters, and honor. Cursing until he was guffawing at his own ire and cursing the trees around them, the sky itself. The big, blue-eyed giant whose skull housed the world.

“And women,” he added, tongue heavy in his mouth. “Women, for being so fucking  _ pretty _ \- some of them, anyway.”

Sansa glanced up, amused. The Hound’s head was still against the tree, his uneven eyelids drooping.

“Used to wish I had a woman,” he sighed, tossing the empty wineskin onto the ground. “Wife, maybe.”

“You could have a wife,” Sansa pointed out, brow furrowing as she sunk the needle into flesh once more. “You’ve got a good name, a strong house -“

“House Clegane,” the Hound sneered, and spat on the ground beside him. “A house built for dogs, by dogs. The Lannisters’ fucking Kennelmaster - a fucking joke.”

Sansa paused long enough to frown up at him.

“It’s not a joke. People  _ respect  _ you. Those men from before, they knew your name, they knew just who you were -“

The Hound laughed, harsh and humorless.

“They don’t respect me, girl, they  _ fear  _ me. They want to kill me for silver, so they can go back to their own fat, happy wives and bury their pricks in their warm -“

“You could still have a wife,” Sansa insisted, interrupting him. She’d resumed her work. “You’re just being hateful.”

The Hound made a noise low in his throat, something part contempt and part pity.

“No songs about ugly dogs and pretty maidens. Just handsome knights, your  _ Lorases _ . Not a woman alive wants to look upon this ugly face every night of her sorry life. Even the whores turn away, no matter how much gold you press in their greedy palms -“

Sansa gave an uncharitable yank on the thread and the Hound startled in pain, glaring at her as she glared at him.

“You’re being morose,” Sansa snapped, unflinching as he narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re always so morose. Did you ever think it’s not your face the women don’t like but your cruelty?”

The Hound huffed a withering laugh.

“That what I am, girl?  _ Cruel _ to you? The mean old hound and the sweet little bird -“

“You’ve never been cruel to  _ me _ ,” Sansa interrupted him, pushing the needle through his flesh. She was almost finished. “You can bark and you can snap, and you can pretend to be scary. But you’re not. I know what you really are. I’ve seen it.”

The Hound growled but fell silent. He watched as she finished, tying off the string and biting it off. She surveyed her handiwork and couldn’t help but be pleased - it was neat, as neat as Maester Luwin’s.

When she looked up at the Hound again, he was staring at her, the burned side of his face strange in its new nakedness. Sansa wondered idly what it would feel like beneath her fingers, against her cheek.

“What am I then, little bird? What do you see?”

His voice was a rasp, warped as if he was trying to sound mocking, disinterested. But there was more to it; he was watching her with caught breath, as though what she said would be his new truth. As though he could see right through to the heat of her thoughts, the sudden, spiked ardency saturating them like sweet wine.

“A good man,” Sansa breathed, one hand still resting on his bare stomach, her other going thoughtlessly to his arm. “A strong man. A protector; someone merciful, and compassionate. … Someone who - who -“

Words failed her and she gave a frustrated little exhale. It was as though the sound had broken some spell; the Hound had been gazing at her with a reverential attention, like a zealot at an altar. But the instant she stammered, he turned from her, digging the heel of his hand into his bad eye.

“Don’t do that,” he mumbled, sounding drunk and sleepy. “Don’t lie to a dog, a dog would never lie to you-“

“I’m not  _ lying  _ to you! And you’re not a dog, you’re a  _ man _ . A stubborn, rude,  _ irritating _ man, and if you don’t stop talking about yourself this way, I’ll - I’ll -“

The Hound laughed - laughed at  _ her _ \- and dropped his hand, turning to better see her.

“You’ll what, little bird? You’ll fly away?” he mocked, the asymmetry of his face cast in shadow by the flickering firelight.

For a moment, Sansa was so angry she felt like she might hit him - hit him right in his mocking, taunting mouth. But she couldn’t hit him. Even if she did he’d only laugh harder, tease her for hitting like a girl, call her ‘little bird’ and dismiss her.

So she did the next best thing.

She took the Hound’s ruined, laughing face in both hands and kissed him.

Shock slackened his mouth. His breath was thick with liquor and wine, his nose pressed against hers where she held him in place. His burned skin under her fingers was thick and mottled, smooth and strange. For a tense moment, she thought he might not kiss her back; that he would simply endure it until she stopped, then laugh at her for  _ this _ , too.

And then…

Oh, and  _ then _ .

Sansa had been kissed before, gentle pecks of dry lips that had set her blushing but not wanting. Not… not like this. Nothing like this.

When the Hound - when  _ Sandor _ \- came to life, he did so with a groan and a burst of fervency that had Sansa’s gut tightening with fever. His hands were on her, one at her waist and one in her hair. He moved his lips against hers in a way that was lewd and luxurious. Sansa didn’t know what to think; she hadn’t anticipated this, not so much so quickly, but the very last thing she wanted to do was pull away.

So she kissed him slowly, cautiously, shallow presses of her lips to his that he returned as he pulled her nearer. She was half in his lap now, no concern given to his fresh stitches, and she knew she should be more careful but  _ he _ didn’t seem to mind.

Instead he was sifting his fingers blindly through her hair as though he was determined to touch every strand. When she parted her lips, she  _ felt  _ rather than heard his answering encouragement, rumbling out of his chest. It made her shiver pleasurably, but it was nothing to the first cautious sweep of her tongue against his lower lip, which had  _ his  _ entire body shuddering under her hands.

Only then did she draw back, staring wondrously at the man beneath her - this powerful bastion, this titan. He was looking up at her as though she was everything sweet in the whole world, his eyes warm and awestruck, his mouth parted as if in surprise.

“Sansa,” he said, voice hoarse and marveling, as though he’d expected her to have been only a dream.

With a jolt of surprise, Sansa realized it was the first time she’d ever heard the Hound call her by her given name.

“Sandor,” she whispered back, smiling a little as if it was a private joke. 

This time, he was the one to pull her into the kiss. And this time, she did nothing to temper it.

Not as her mouth opened to his and his tongue rolled against hers, spiced with liquor and wine. Not as he groaned against her, pressed whispered kisses against her jaw, pulled shivering, needy sounds from her that made her cheeks flush. Not as his hands played across the ridges of her spine, as they wove through her hair. Not even as he sucked sweetly at her throat, thumbs raising gooseflesh where they touched her clothed breasts.

It felt like it never stopped - like it went on forever, like they kissed and touched and whispered through an eternal, velvet night.

And yet, somehow, Sansa found herself blinking awake in new daylight, curled into the Hound’s bare chest as he snored gently above her.

The night before poured in all at once, like a bucket of water upended, and she touched her mouth with wondering fingers, a small smile playing at its corners as she remembered.

It was a far cry from the Hound’s reaction.

He woke with a cough and slitted his eyes open, scowling down at her - 

Only to see one of the fading bruises at her throat and snap fully awake.

“Who in  _ seven fucking hells  _ -?!” he thundered, stopping short as realization cracked across his face like a punch.

"Ah,  _fuck_." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three updates in one day because my vacation is ending and I gotta get to the Good Stuff. Here's a little bit of it.
> 
> Thanks as always to Yetis_girl, my sweet Aussie Kezzie369, and Veronica, who told me to.
> 
> If you've read this far, thank you!!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound struggles to understand women.

The stitches had to be redone.

Sandor held very still as she worked, doing his best not to notice the furtive glances she kept sneaking his way.

She’d tried to shout him down when they woke, insisting she’d wanted it, that  _ she’d _ been the one to instigate. An impossibility, Sandor was sure, but he’d gotten too fucking drunk to properly remember. It was bloody irritating, not being certain of the truth, but even more irritating not being able to remember what was doubtlessly one of the best nights of his pitiful fucking life.

He remembered bits of it, of course - the sounds she’d made, soft as sighs, as he’d worked the blunt of his teeth against the pulse point of her neck. The way she’d arched her back beneath his hands, as though she couldn’t be near enough to him. How she’d squirmed at the hips, chasing some unknown pleasure, as she’d opened her mouth to his tongue.

All of it like a dream, veiled by his fucking  _ drunkenness _ .

_ Fucking Brotherhood _ , he thought again, more spiteful than before. They were rapidly becoming the scapegoat for all his ailments.

He glanced down at her as she sewed, noticing anew the hints of copper showing through the fading dye. He could remember the feel of her hair, too, sliding through his fingers, softer than the finest fabric he’d ever touched.

Fucked. He was  _ fucked _ .

“You need to carry a dagger,” he said apropos of nothing, looking away from her again. The tugging at his side paused. He could feel her eyes on him.

“I don’t have a belt,” she pointed out as the tugging resumed, her tone sharper than usual.

“Not on a fucking belt. You’ve got to hide it on you.”

Sansa snorted a sardonic little laugh. She’d been doing that a lot lately; Sandor might’ve been proud she’d picked something up from him, were it not so often  _ aimed _ at him.

“Where?”

He hissed as the needle dug in deeper than before. He didn’t miss the smirk in Sansa’s voice as she apologized.

“I don’t know, girl, that’s the whole point of  _ hiding  _ something, isn’t it?”

The tugging stopped again and this time, it was a reflex; Sandor glanced down to find her glaring at him, needle still in hand.

“You want me to hide it from  _ you _ ,” she said, accusation in the words sharp as the needle in her hand. “I don’t need protecting from you, you  _ idiot  _ \- as I’ve said, I kissed  _ you _ ,  _ I  _ initiated it -”

“It doesn’t matter. If it were to happen again -”

“Then what? If I try and you let me, you want me to  _ stab _ you?”

Sandor had no answer for that, something made obvious by the way he snarled and turned away.

But Sansa wasn’t finished. The little bird had learned to do more than chirp, it seemed.

She waited until they’d packed the saddlebags and loaded the horse, doing most of the work in an effort to keep Sandor from re-tearing his stitches. He’d reached for her waist to help her onto the horse but she’d only batted his hands away, telling him in that insufferably confident way she was increasingly adopting that he shouldn’t ride ‘in that condition.’

“Maester Luwin always said -”

“Think I’ve heard enough from your bloody maester,” Sandor growled, tugging the reins as he led the horse through a narrow passage of trees.

Sansa’s answering glare helped lift his spirits, if only a little.

“Fine. No more stories about Maester Luwin,” she granted, too easily for Sandor not to be suspicious. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye; she had her chin up, her expression neutral. She was good at that, he knew by now; hiding everything away. It was almost uncanny, how many things she’d perfected from Cersei Lannister.

  
“Fine,” he agreed after a pause.

A mistake.

“What about a story of my own?” she offered. Sandor swore loudly, sending a nearby rabbit skittering deeper into the woods.

“What is it with women, always wanting to  _ talk _ about things after? You say you’ve not bled, so your virtue’s intact -”

“Is that all I’m worth to every man in all of Westeros? My  _ virtue _ ? Joffrey, yes, his vile mother, yes, maybe even every other lord in every one of the seven kingdoms - but not you, too. Surely you’re not so  _ dull _ ?”

Her glare seared through Sandor’s temple like a sunbeam. He jerked his chin to return it, but found himself faltering under the intensity of hers.

And when had she gotten so  _ tall _ ?

“It can’t change anything,” he told her, gruff but doing his best not to sound sullen. “You know that. I know that. Alone in a forest for as long as we’ve been, I understand it, and I’ll not complain about it. Might be the only chance I have with a girl like you. But a dog-”

“You’re not a dog, you’re a man,” Sansa interrupted, exasperation clinging to every word like tar. “Is that what you think this is? That I - what, that I pity you? That I’m  _ bored _ ?”

The Hound gave a great sniff, shooting her a wry, cutting look.

“Think you would’ve wanted to climb into my lap in King’s Landing? That the little bird, with all the world’s choices laid out before her, would’ve still crept into my chambers, pressed her sweet kisses onto my ugly cheek?”

Sansa’s cheeks went their usual lovely shade of pink and Sandor’s mouth twitched in a satisfied little smirk. His point had landed and he was prepared for her blustering rebuke, the stammers she always served up before she fell poutily silent.

Only to be surprised.

  
“I did.”

He looked over at her, brow furrowed.   
  
“What did you say, girl?”   
  


“I said, I  _ did _ want to. You teased me before, said I ‘fancied’ you - as if it was something stupid and childish. And you’re right. It was.”

She was telling him he was right, yet it didn’t  _ feel _ like she was saying he was right. He scowled.

“But those childish things grow up as children grow up.” She paused and Sandor tried to wrap his mind around what she was saying. “ _ I’m _ grown up now. And those feelings have changed.”

She was speaking so calmly about her own feelings, not an ounce of shame to them. He had never had a woman of his own, but he knew about them - men were always going on about the way they whinged and played games, how it was impossible to know what they were thinking, what they wanted. How the prettiest ones were the daftest, and the fattest ones the most honest, and the best ones were somewhere in between the two.

But Sansa was not daft, or fat, and everything she was saying felt wrong but there was no room for misinterpretation. It sounded as though she was saying… she had desired him. Had harbored…  _ feelings _ for him, since well before their strange journey.

“Have they,” was all he said, strangely aware of her walking on his left - on his burned side. He usually walked with her on his right.

“Yes, they have.”

She offered nothing else. 

He desperately wanted to know more, but it was more than his pride was worth to ask.

They walked on in tense silence - or at least,  _ he _ walked on in tense silence. The little bird seemed perfectly content, an extra spring in her step as they cut a path through the Whispering Wood.

She didn’t speak of it again. At night, she slept beside him just as before, though now Sandor lay awake well after she’d drifted off, wondering. Sometimes he hated her for it; he wasn’t some green boy, moon-eyed over a bitch in heat. 

It was worse for her honesty, since he knew he could just  _ ask _ . But what could it possibly mean? 

The little bird was a lady, a proper lady, and he was a dog without a master. He didn’t know what he’d do after she found her new home; he didn’t have anything to offer her but scars and ire. The idea of her choosing him was so strange and foreign it felt like farce, but Sansa was not cruel. She wouldn’t toy with him.

That didn’t mean he let his guard down again, not for many days after.

It was well over a week before they came upon another village, long enough for the dye to fade completely out of Sansa’s hair. Thankfully, the ree seemed not such a problem here; they passed several woman with similar russet hair, a more common color so close to Riverrun. No one looked twice at them as they led the horse through the streets, Sandor with his hood up, Sansa in her peasant’s gown.

They ate in the space below, no conversation between them. This didn’t bother Sansa as it once had. She’d been filling their hours practicing with her dagger, taking the horse at a gallop. She could make fire with wet flint and read the stars well enough to turn herself back on course. And when she grew weary of quiet, she simply filled it with her own chatter - her singing, her musings. Prodding the Hound until he joined in.

  
To her credit, she didn’t bring up that night again, not after she’d said her piece on it, and nor had he.

Not that he’d forgotten about it. He’d thought of it every night since as she’d pressed in close, one of his arms resting at her hip, his chin resting on her head. Their roles had become somehow reversed: it was as though  _ she  _ was the one careful not to spook him, being needlessly cautious when touching him, when looking at him. As though trying not to make  _ him _ uncomfortable.

He hated himself for how pathetically he appreciated it.

And he appreciated it now, as they barred the door to the small room, both of them accustomed to the sight of a single bed.

“Don’t worry,” Sansa said, her back to him as she pulled off her boots. He averted his eyes from her bare ankles. “I won’t come for your virtue in the night.”

It was his own words turned back on him, and he could  _ hear _ the smirk she was hiding from view.

_ This maddening bitch _ , he thought, dropping his shoulder armor to the floor.

“Fuck off,” he said, dropping his breastplate, too.

He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed when she kept her word, doing nothing more than cuddling up close to him and falling asleep. Her breaths slowed quickly, long and even, and he knew she was sleeping well; he could recognize her nightmares by now, the shallow, hurried breaths she would take as she twitched against him. But this wasn’t like that. In a bed, clutching his tunic, she was sleeping heavy.

It was only fair, then, that he slept so poorly, too distracted by the shape of her body so near to his and the new knowledge that she  _ wanted _ him to touch it - for that’s what she’d said, that she  _ wanted _ it - to fall into anything more than a restless slumber.

The next morning the little bird asked to fly.

“Just around the square outside - look, you can see it from our window. Please, Sandor, I miss people, I miss talking to them. I’ll keep my dagger on me, I’ll be safe.”

Sandor hadn’t liked the idea of it but it felt strange to tell her no, so he’d told her to meet him at the stable in a half an hour. Her answering smile had rivaled the morning sun.

He’d made the most of his brief privacy by packing the saddlebags, taking a proper bath, and lingering after to ‘clear his head.’ He’d tried not to think of her as he’d taken his cock in hand, but every other woman he conjured up faded into her likeness - red hair, firm tits, legs that flexed beneath the roam of his hand…

He spilled with an agonized groan not a moment too soon, since the innkeeper came pounding on the door, telling him it was time to go.

Sandor pushed past him a moment later, not sparing him a glance as he hoisted the saddlebags up higher on his shoulder.

“You can stay longer for a few coppers more!” the innkeeper, a kind-faced, portly old man, called after him. Sandor ignored him.

Sansa still wasn’t there as he saddled the horse, though it hadn’t yet been the full half hour. He wasn’t worried; he  _ wasn’t _ worried.

That’s what he told himself as he slung the saddlebags over the horse’s flank, scowling all the while.

“Ser - ser!”

Sandor flinched at the honorific.

It was the innkeeper again, his eyes wide and his cheeks reddened as he hurried. He was clutching something in his hands as he hustled through the stables, holding it out toward Sandor.

“Ser, I beg your pardon -”

“Not a bloody knight,” Sandor mumbled under his breath as he squinted at what the innkeeper was extending.

“Ser, my deepest apologies - I didn’t realize a member of the Kingsguard was patronizing our inn, else I would’ve made far more comfortable arrangements -”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Sandor snapped, reaching out and snatching the bundle from the man’s hand.  _ Of fucking course _ , he thought distractedly; it was the little bird’s disgusting blanket, the one she refused to wash. “I’m not in the bloody -”

Only then, when he shook the wretched thing out to inspect it, did he realize why the innkeeper was blathering on as he was.

  
He stared at it, first with confusion: it was his cloak, his old kingsguard white cloak, unmistakable. He hadn’t realized it before, but the girl’s blanket had embroidery along its edges, fine gold thread - Lannister gold. And it was cut like a cloak, shaped like a cloak, stitched for a clasp at the throat, lined like a cloak…

But why the fuck did the little bird have his kingsguard cloak?

“A thousand pardons again, my lord -”

“Fuck off,” Sandor said, too distracted for it to be as cutting as usual. The innkeeper gave a frantic, grateful little bow and hurried back away, leaving Sandor marveling over the cloak.

Because he remembered where it had come from.

He remembered it like it was yesterday: the little bird, barely out of childhood, sobbing on the floor in the throne room. And Joffrey, the inbred cunt, with his loaded crossbow, pointing it at Sansa, ordering Meryn fucking Trant to tear her clothes off, to beat her. Until the Imp came in and saved her - 

_ The Imp saved her, not you. Because you were a fucking coward. _

Shame burned hot in Sandor’s belly, hot as if it had happened all over. The girl had been naked and crying in court and all he’d done was sling his cloak over her back, and in return…

In return, she’d kept it and slept beneath it for years.

There was a strange burning in his eyes as he heard familiar footsteps approaching. He was quick to stuff the cloak into the saddlebags and out of sight.

When he turned, she was beaming at him, and holding up two sticky breads wrapped in paper.

  
“You didn’t take any silver,” the Hound rasped, brow furrowing.

“Sometimes,” Sansa answered deftly, holding her out a hand for Sandor to help her into the saddle, “it pays to be kind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to a_lady, Veronica, Kezzie369, Steampoweredwitch, SouthronWildling, Sarahsan17, lovebeyondmeasure, Selenity_Rosado_Moonsnake, DarkStar27, megmeg654, fame, vulncrasanentur, PigiSi, Lady Lenneth, JCord, and RaiMagnolia for taking the time to leave such encouraging comments!
> 
> And to Direwaggle42, who writes me my own tiny fanfic every time.
> 
> Yall are blowing me away ❤️
> 
> Full disclosure, I go back to reality tomorrow (I was on vacation for the entire life of this fic so far) so I doubt I’ll be able to pull anymore multi-chapter days. But I’ll keep doing a chapter a day!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa comes undone.

After so many months of riding through forest, it was strange to travel over open hills.

They were greener than anything Sansa had ever seen in the north. Blankets of soft grass covered every hill and valley, untouched by frost or feet.

As lovely as it was, the change in horizon made her anxious. In the forest there had been cover, trees to hide behind and streams to drink from. In the midlands, there were narrow rivers - the forks, blue and green and red - and craggy lumps of rock. But mostly there was open sky, open land, and nowhere to hide.

Nowhere to bathe, either. They had taken to filling their water at shallow ponds and roughly hewn wells, but splashing tepid water on her face did little to temper the grime of dust and sweat. The Hound wasn’t much better; it had taken her nearly half a day to get accustomed to his scent, musky and masculine as it was. Now, she barely noticed it.

“We’ll have to cross the Kingsroad in a few days,” Sandor told her one evening. She no longer rode like a child with an arm around him; she’d grown comfortable straddling the horse’s back, her hands loose around the saddle horn.

“Rather do it at night. Too risky, crossing it in the light. Someone could recognize you.”

“Or you,” Sansa said, shooting the Hound a wry smile over her shoulder.

“Aye,” he agreed, chuckling under his breath. “Or me.”

He had been doing that more and more, laughing. And smiling, and teasing, and showing her small kindnesses. It was as though her unexpected gift of sweet bread in Fairmarket had knocked something loose within him, stripped away the surly reticence brought on by their kissing and put him back to normal.

No - better than normal.

He was still rude, of course. He still cursed and spat and drank, still threatened anyone who passed by with a slow death. He called the horse a cunt a dozen times a day and glared when Sansa asked him too many questions.

But he had also grown gentler with her. First it had been little things, like rearranging her fingers on the hilt of her dagger. Then it had been plucking stray leaves from her hair. Now, he sometimes brushed his armored knuckles against her shoulder or back, just because he could. 

He had done it just now, a brush of his fingers against her upper arm. Sansa smiled to herself and drifted her fingers through the horse’s coarse mane.

“Have you ever been to the Eyrie?” she asked after a lull, looking up again and squinting into the distance, as though the mountains might have dragged themselves into view.

The Hound grunted. Usually, that meant no.

“I’ve heard it’s beautiful. Misty and winter-blue, with mountains so big you can’t fit them all into one glance.”

“Sounds like whoever told you that didn’t stand back far enough,” the Hound growled, armor creaking as he shifted on the horse behind her. 

Sansa rolled her eyes.

Just as the Hound had predicted, it was three days’ ride before they reached the Kingsroad. 

They waited until nightfall before crossing, Sansa with her hood up, the Hound with his trinity of weapons strapped to his body. She kept accidentally holding her breath, her eyes darting around as though expecting to see Joffrey himself, back from the dead, cresting a distant hill.

But the road was quiet and empty of travelers, and the horse abled over the dusty path without stopping. Sansa scarcely could believe how easily they’d made it across; she was still waiting for a trick, an ambush.

No ambush came. 

It was just her, the Hound, and the sentinel moon, high and overripe, spilling silver onto everything. It glinted off the distant edges of rocks and caught on the wings of strange little insects that darted out of their path. It even rippled against the ground, casting strange shadows that made it look as though…

“Look!” Sansa gasped, flinging an arm out to point. “Look, just there - a hot spring, just like in Winterfell!”

“No hot springs this far south,” the Hound told her, scathing as ever. But Sansa was certain.

“No, it is, I’m  _ sure _ it is - oh, can we stop? Please, Sandor, we’ve got to be miles away from the Kingsroad by now, and we need to make camp anyway. And I’d  _ love _ a bath, it’s been so long -“

“The lady is suffering discomfort on her treasonous escape mission?” Sandor mocked, the reins still firm in his hands. He was showing no signs of stopping.

Sansa twisted to look him full in the face, her eyes narrowed slightly.

“ _ You  _ could do with a bath, too.”

They stopped.

Sansa ran to the edge of the pool the instant she’d dismounted. It was deep; deep enough that she couldn’t see the bottom, though the water was clear and clean and made black by the night sky. The moon’s twin rippled across the surface as she trailed her fingertips across its surface. It was warm - not hot, like the springs back home, but warm as a bath, and deep enough to swim in. Were she not touching it, she’d be sure it was a mirage, some lovely cruelty conjured by the Lannisters to torture her.

“Aren’t you going to eat first?” the Hound asked, but Sansa scarcely heard him. She was already tugging off her boots, rolling down her socks. Beside her, the horse had come to drink.

She was down to her shift and her smallclothes before she hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at the Hound. She expected to find him looking respectfully away but he wasn’t. He was watching her placidly as he tore apart a loaf of bread, one ankle crossed over the other.

“Have your bath, girl,” he said around a mouthful of bread. “I’m not a bloody green boy, I won’t lose my head.”

Sansa didn’t hesitate. She stripped quickly, eagerly, with her back to the Hound, before sliding fully into the silvered pool. 

It felt like heaven. 

The floor was soft silt, gentle on her sore feet. She waded out toward the center until her toes couldn't reach, her arms making shadowy shapes in the clear water. She turned her face up to the moon and her hair fanned out around her like a cloud of dark ink. 

For a moment, the water covered her ears and she was somewhere else - not here, not home, but somewhere safe and womblike, where pain did not exist and the only sound was the lap of the water and her own steady heartbeat.

Sansa drifted like that for awhile, peaceful and sky-facing like a lost lunar priestess. When she finally opened her eyes she found the Hound just as she’d left him, though he’d traded his bread for the cask of ale.

She swam nearer to shore and buried her toes in the silky sand.

“You have to come in too,” she reminded him, tracing a wide arc through the water with her hand. It lapped at her collarbones, hiding her from view.

“Not safe,” the said, his throat working as he swallowed down more ale. “And I’m having a fine time from here.”

Sansa’s face heated pleasurably at the implication.

“There’s no one around for miles. And you  _ need _ a bath. Or is safety not your concern? Perhaps the lord is suffering  _ discomfort  _ on his treasonous escape mission?”

The Hound’s answering laugh sent a frisson of something down Sansa’s spine, leaving a tingling in its wake.

“Not afraid of a naked girl, not unless your cunt’s got teeth,” he said, hauling himself up. Sansa sucked in a sharp breath, offense furrowing her brow. His smirk only widened.

“You really shouldn’t talk like that,” Sansa chided, though it was more sulk than scold as she twisted her toes deeper into the sand. The Hound was disarming himself as he did every night just before he slept, pulling away the blades strapped to his body. “And I won’t do anything, I swear it -“

“Seven hells, girl, I’m not afraid of you. Just don’t like undressing in front of - of  _ people _ . You think I’m ugly now, wait til you see the rest of the scars -“

“I don’t think you’re ugly,” Sansa interrupted, and she saw the Hound’s mouth twitch.

“No,” he agreed after a pause, bending to unlace his boots. “Suppose you don’t.”

“Please?”

It was a last-ditch effort and scarcely one she expected to work. The Hound stilled, heaved a great sigh, and turned to face her.

“I get in that water with you, I’m going to put my hands on you.”

Sansa’s heart stammered over its beats, her throat constricting on a sudden swallow. He was speaking to her as plainly as she’d spoken to him, but she hadn’t expected it - she hadn’t been ready for it.

“But we’ve got to be careful. Got to keep your honor intact.”

He stepped out of his boots as he spoke, rolling down his socks.

“Can you do that, little bird?”

He pulled away his tunic and discarded it on the grass. The moon rushed down to kiss him, highlighting each line of pearly scar tissue criss-crossing his muscled body, even the still-healing scar below his ribs.

Sansa nodded, her throat suddenly very dry as the Hound unlaced his breeches.

He watched her watching him, eyes hot as flame. He moved neither slowly nor quickly, but it felt an agonizing wait - first the breeches went, baring the thick musculature of his thighs and calves. And then the smallclothes.

Sansa had never seen a naked man before. She’d bathed with her brothers as children and once walked in on Theon with a serving girl, but that was nothing compared to this. They had been hairless, young; the Hound was a  _ man _ , a proper man, and as he waded into the water, Sansa couldn’t stop staring.

It was his throaty chuckle that yanked her back into focus.

“That the first one you’ve seen?” he asked, as though he’d read the thoughts stamped behind her eyes.

“No,” she lied, though it was too defensive to be convincing. The Hound only chuckled again, the water circling his waist and hiding what had so fascinated her - his  _ cock _ , just the word itself felt so filthy - from view.

Something splashed down in front of her. He’d tossed her the soap.

“Bathe, girl. Might be with your beloved aunt before you get another chance.”

Sansa plucked the bar from the water and began to wash herself, doing her best not to stare. It was as though the Hound’s sudden presence in the water had changed the very texture of it.It pressed against her like body heat, like mouths and hands at her breasts, between her legs. Fever melted like candle wax at the apex of her thighs, throbbing like a pulse.

_ Warm and hungry _ , Shae had said. Sansa was hot and ravenous.

She watched him through her lashes as she worked the soap into her hair. He had gone out to the center of the pool just as she had, but he didn’t float near the surface. Instead he sunk beneath it, sending ripples against her skin. 

When he reemerged, water streamed off of his shoulders, over his back. He raised his arms to wring it out of his hair, thick ropes of muscle bunching and releasing as he moved. The scars littering the breadth of his shoulders were pale and raised. He was fierce and terrible, a striking man. And so, so handsome.

The way he was standing, Sansa couldn’t see his burns at all - just his profile, lips parted, eyes closed. But even if she could… if she could see the mottled skin, the ruined eyebrow. He would still be handsome then.

She exhaled a slow, grounding breath through her nose. 

Sandor heard.

He lifted his eyes to hers and a slow, wolfish smile threatened at the corners of his mouth.

“That’s not how good girls look at dogs,” Sandor growled, starting towards her. Sansa’s cheeks reddened.

“You’re not a dog,” she said breathlessly. Sandor stilled, mere feet away.

“Aye. But you  _ are  _ a good girl. A little songbird with a gilded cage.”

Belatedly, she realized the words he usually used to taunt her weren’t taunting at all. He sounded breathless, too; his eyes were roaming over her, as if he could see her nakedness through the dark water.

“Why do you want me to touch you, little bird?”

Sansa’s entire body felt taut as a pulled bow.

“I - I -“

“I know you sleep under my cloak. Know you have since the Red Keep. Why?”

Sansa’s cheeks threatened to burst into flame. When had he recognized the cloak? How long had he known?

“Go on, little bird. Chirp for me.”

He was closer now, close enough for Sansa to touch if she reached out her arm. He was waiting for an answer. She had forgotten how to speak. She realized he wouldn’t come any closer until she did.

“You make me feel safe,” Sansa managed, staring up into the Hound’s marred face. “You have, ever since I was a girl. You were the only one in that castle who cared how I felt. Not just if I lived or died, but if I was suffering.”

Her voice was quiet as confession. Once she’d started, she found she couldn’t stop.

“But it was more. Shae - my handmaiden - spoke to me of desire. Of men and women, and how women could take pleasure, too, if they wanted. I didn’t understand then - I didn’t  _ want. _ ”

Sandor’s eyes had gone very soft, his lips parted as he studied her face.

“When I see you now… You said once that I kissed you because I was bored, because you were all I had. But even in the Red Keep, I knew. I wanted to touch you, to press my cheek to yours. I thought it right to fancy Ser Loras and men like him, but I fancied the  _ idea _ of them. It was always you I wanted to run to. With happy news, with terrible news.”

Sansa realized with a jolt that she’d drifted closer as she spoke. She could see the deep brown of his irises, their lattice pattern.

“I see you now… and I  _ want _ . I want you to touch me with your hands. I want you to kiss me, to let me kiss you. I want to pull off your tunic and press my face to your chest, to feel your hands at my breasts, at my back, at my - my -“

Sansa’s face was hot but not with shame. Sandor’s eyes flashed; he was breathing hard, staring at her like he’d never seen her before.

“Say it, girl,” he hissed, the words dragged over gravel. “Say it - tell me what you want.”

“ _ Here _ ,” Sansa burst out, seizing his hand and dragging it to her through the water, pressing it between her legs. “I want you to touch me  _ here _ .”

The Hound’s shuddering exhale was lost in their kiss.

He kept his hand pressed to her as he opened her mouth to his, seizing her by the waist and pulling her close. She could feel the hard line of his cock pressed against her thigh, was made dizzy by the idea of how badly he wanted her, too.

He kissed her harder than before, rough and claiming, his free arm wrapped around her waist. She’d slid her own arms around his neck, her breasts pressed shamelessly to his chest. The sheer sensation of wet skin on skin was enough to have her blood singing.

But it was nothing compared to the pure shock of pleasure that came from the Hound’s first grind of his hand against her cunt.

She gasped into his mouth and he nipped her lower lip in response, growling out a noise as he did it again. Sansa had never felt anything like it, never, and she felt half-mad for it, lusty and hedonistic.

“Please,” she gasped against the Hound’s parted lips. “Please -“

“What do you want, little bird,” he murmured, working the heel of his hand against her. “Tell me what you want.”

She knew what she wanted, what she  _ truly _ wanted. It was the thing she couldn’t have, the thing he’d not give her. Not even if she begged. For that brief moment, she loathed the Hound’s strange code of honor.

“Is it this you like?” he said and pressed against her again, though this time he drifted two fingers between her folds, dipping one shallowly into her.

Sansa cried out.

It was all the encouragement the Hound needed. He pulled her even closer, one hand digging into the meat of her backside as he played with her, fingers tracing little shapes at her entrance as he worked the heel of his hand against her.

He spoke as he did it, coaxing her on, the deep of his voice rumbling against her chest. He called her ‘little bird,’ he called her ‘my lady.’ He told her she was pretty, told her she was a pain in his arse. He promised to kill a hundred men for her, he promised he’d never leave her.

“ - go on, little bird, let go.  _ Gods _ , if I could fuck you -“

It was the crudeness of the word that shoved Sansa over the edge, pleasure and newness bursting and spreading through her body. It came in lovely waves until she felt melted, until she was sure she had become as liquid as the water and as glittery as the stars.

But she hadn’t.

Instead she drifted back down to find herself clinging to the Hound’s wet chest, shivering despite the warmth. He was holding her very close and stroking up and down her back, murmuring little kindnesses.

Sansa could scarcely believe what had happened.

“What was  _ that _ ,” she finally breathed, pressing her face into the scarred side of his neck. She felt his cough of laughter in her chest.

“That’s what your bloody handmaiden forgot to tell you about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Reiselust, Kezzie369, lilmint, JaceWolf, SnowInSeptember, MarVal44, and AshleyP43 for leaving the best encouragement!
> 
> And to my bb DireWaggle42 and Lady Lenneth for taking the time to leave tomes of kindness, I love yall 💕
> 
> So far, writing a chapter at work was more doable than I expected. The daily updates seem safe! Enjoy your porn, you degenerates 😘


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound gets his.

When Sansa came apart, it took all of Sandor’s self control not to chase his pleasure, too.

She shuddered against him, her breathy sounds still echoing in his mind. He held her very close as though careful not to let her break into pieces. Fleetingly, he remembered other times he’d held her so close - after the bread riots, after she’d fainted at her father’s beheading. After times she’d been beaten bloody by Meryn Trant and left to fend for herself. Always on the heels of abuse, always just in time to do nothing.

_ Not anymore _ , he thought with a calm ferocity.  _ Never again _ .

Sansa’s limbs were beginning to feel heavy, her cheek solid and sleepy against his shoulder. He huffed a small laugh and ran his hand once more up the length of her spine, counting the vertebrae as he went.

“Can’t sleep here, little bird,” he murmured, kissing the top of her ear. She murmured sleepily into his neck before unwinding against him, her body touching his at almost every point. She turned her face up to his. Her eyes were sleepy and dark, blue as deep and rich as a sapphire. The stars reflected in them, dappling them with shimmering light. 

Sandor had never seen her so content.

“How many girls have you done that to?” she asked, a smile quirking the corners of her mouth. Sandor pinched her arse.

“Fuck off,” he said, and Sansa laughed aloud, clinging to him tighter with arms around his neck. He was still achingly hard and her legs wrapped around his middle were doing little to help.

“You pretend to be so scary, but here you are - Sandor Clegane, the Hound, best fighter in Westeros and lover of ladies.”

Amusement rang in every word and Sandor gave a little growl, reaching behind him to peel her arms away from his neck. Her smile faltered and she looked confused, then concerned as he pulled her arms away and began wading with her toward the shore.

“Sandor - I was only jesting. You know I didn’t mean -”

“Settle down, girl, I’m not angry. Just hard as Valyrian fucking steel and your tight body wrapped around mine isn’t helping.”

Sansa’s mouth made a little ‘o’ of surprise. He expected for propriety to kick back in, for her to scramble backwards and apologize. His hands were at her waist, dwarfing it as they always did as attempted to pry her off.

Instead, she clamped her knees tighter.

“You didn’t - you haven’t -?” she tried, her blush softened prettily by the moonlight. Sandor almost laughed at her again but thought better of it. 

“No, little bird.” He abandoned trying to peel her away and instead let his eyes slip back down, roving over her exposed breasts, her bare collarbones. It occurred to him with a streak of violent possessiveness that no other man had ever seen her so naked, not even Joffrey. 

“But… why?”

This time, Sandor  _ did _ laugh.

“Not possible to have a man loosing his arrow without nocking it first.”

Her blush deepened but she looked up into his face, bold as Lannister gold, and furrowed her brow.

“How do I touch you?”

The laughter died on Sandor’s face.

“You don’t have to -“

“I know I don’t have to,” Sansa pushed, her blush spreading down to her neck, to her chest, even as she lifted her chin and stared him straight in the eye. “I want to. Don’t make me say it again.”

Sandor swallowed, the flex of his throat betraying his sudden emotion. He  _ wasn’t  _ some fucking green boy, but it had been ages since he’d been touched by a woman without a bag of silver thrown down at the end of it. And it had never been a woman like Sansa.

“If you won’t tell me…” Sansa started, dropping her chin to peer through the water. Sandor’s eyes followed hers. Their bodies were still joined, Sansa’s legs hooked around his middle, until she broke away from him to trail an exploratory hand down his abdomen. 

Her fingers drifted over the peaks of scars, leaving heat in their wake, stirring his blood. She didn’t stray from her path, no playful touches across his chest or muscles. 

When her knuckles bumped gently into the length of him, she gasped.

“It won’t hurt you,” he said lazily, eyes drifting closed as her fingertips ghosted along his cock.  _ Now  _ she was playing, feeling him curiously, thumb swiping over the head of his cock and making him shiver.

“I don’t see how people do it,” Sansa said quietly, curling her fingers loosely around him. “It seems like it would hurt, like it wouldn’t - as if it wouldn’t  _ fit _ .”

The Hound snorted a laugh, opening his eyes. His pupils had blown very dark.

“You highborns and your flattery,” he growled, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her into his side. Her naked body pressed to his made his cock twitch in her hand and she turned her face up to his, triumphant.

“Like this, girl-“

He pushed a hand through the water to meet hers, interlacing their fingers. It was the first time he’d ever held her hand like this and he was momentarily distracted by the smallness of hers, the delicate bones of her fingers.

“Like… this?” Sansa asked curiously, looking up at him again as she gave a gentle squeeze. The Hound shook his head and guided her hand in down in a slow, even stroke, grinding his teeth as he did.

“Like this,” he breathed, building up a steady rhythm with her hand before slipping his away.

It was just Sansa now, his little bird, his stolen lady, gazing up at him with naked affection as she stroked his cock. He was staring back, his eyes heavily lidded, his jaw set. His arm around her was crushing and tension was building low in his gut. It was similar to the feverish madness he felt in the midst of a fight; his ends were fraying, his sense of right and wrong tarnishing.

“Yes,” he ground out, his hands playing once more against her body. “Seven  _ fucking  _ hells, yes-“

He dropped his face to her neck and set upon it with his lips and tongue, trailing searing heat from her throat to her chest. She moved against him, squirming in his arms, her bare cunt pressed to his hip as she worked him over.

“Is this - ?” she began, words hitching on a gasp as Sandor sucked her nipple into his mouth. He only growled in answer, grazing his teeth along the pale pink of it, rolling his tongue against its tight bud as he thrust into her hand.

He realized with a shiver how close he was; he realized in a sudden shattering, his defenses and thoughts all reduced to ash, his mouth pressed to Sansa’s ear as she teased the head of his cock with the pad of her thumb.

“Yes - fuck -  _ Sansa _ ,” the Hound moaned, and then, uncharacteristically, “ _ please - _ “

It was the shiver of her body that tipped him over, his orgasm tearing through him like something fierce and horned. He seized Sansa by the shoulders as it burned down his spine, kissing her hard on the mouth until she was pliant in his arms and kittenish to his ear.

“Enough,” Sandor rasped, just as he had so many moons ago. “Enough.”

They lay naked on the bank together dipped in silver moonlight. Sansa would not stop smiling at him; he could not stop staring at her. He stayed still and docile as her fingers played curiously over his face, over the hideous burns on the left side. He closed his eyes as she leaned over and pressed light kisses his ruined cheek and lips, too light for him to feel through the thick, mottled skin though they still warmed him to his core.

They didn’t speak at all, and for that Sandor was grateful. His throat was strange and clogged, his eyes burning at the backs every time she gifted him another gentle kiss.

She fell asleep before him, curled against his chest. He looked his fill, memorizing every freckle on her nose, ever mole on her back. Every single golden strand woven into the red. The sweet red bud of her mouth and the shadows her eyelashes dusted on her cheeks. 

He knew with the finality of a stone sealing a tomb that he was in love with Sansa Stark… and that Sansa Stark was not his to love.

  
When they reached the Bloody Gate days later, Sandor had never wanted to give anything up less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to a_lady, Roraly3, MegGiry_Khaleesi, JMBH, SouthronWildling, Veronica, RaiMagnolia, baileyblueroan, anna03o3, DarkStar27, SnowInSeptember, shoshanacohen, Saoirse97, starsign, fame, Kezzie369, and KarlaP for leaving such thoughtful and encouraging comments!
> 
> And to Lady Lenneth and DireWaggle42 who CONSISTENTLY leave amazing little stories for me to read, I LOVE YALL.
> 
> This was more of the same but with feelings, so I hope I didn't lose you! Next chapter will probably get a mixed response, sry in advance, love you. Only 6 left!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has regrets.

The Eyrie was as beautiful and terrible as the stories her father had told her, and Sansa did not sleep well there.

Her chambers were in one of the slim white towers spearing up from the castle’s sides, so tall it felt like she was cradled in the hand of a giant, hoisted up into the clouds. There was a heavy waterfall she could hear from her windows that made her feel romantic and melancholy all at once. Her bed was too soft and too empty. She had become accustomed to sleeping on the ground, tucked into the Hound’s side. 

But she was a lady again.

It was strange, to be thrust back into decadence after so long without it. She had handmaids, girls to dress her and braid her hair. She had a hot bath every night and plates full of rich food for every meal. The people of the Vale bowed when she passed, stood when she entered a room, called her ‘my lady.’ She wore fine gowns of clean, buttery brocade and heeled slippers in just her size.

She should be happy.

She should, but it all felt hollow. Because of her newfound loneliness, and because of her aunt Lysa.

Sansa’s aunt was a strange, mantis-like woman, with a severe face and a cloying voice. It was uncharitable for Sansa to think these things since Aunt Lysa had shown her nothing but kindness since they’d arrived - she’d held Sansa against her bosom, lamenting over the losses she’d endured. She’d sworn revenge against the Lannisters, against the Freys. She’d stroked Sansa’s hair and promised her hearth and home.

Yet something about her unnerved Sansa, even beyond the way she’d spoken to the Hound.

“I’ve heard of the Hound. A Lannister knight, is it?”

“He’s not a knight,” Sansa had said quickly, casting the Hound a warning glance. Something told Sansa her aunt wouldn’t take kindly to crude language. Lysa was holding her by the arm, an affectionate touch that was beginning to feel vicelike.

“I see. We don’t take kindly to Lannisters in the Vale, Clegane. Did you know my husband, the late Hand of the late king?”

“Lot of late kings these days,” Sandor had rasped, shaking a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Aye, I knew Lord Arryn. An honorable man, like his friend Ned Stark.”

“And you served the Lannisters? The Lannisters who  _ murdered _ him?”

Lysa’s voice had gone higher, her eyes popping slightly. Her grip on Sansa’s arm had tightened.

“Aunt Lysa -” Sansa had said, bringing her hand up to the woman’s fingers, attempting to pull them away. But the lady had only gripped tighter.

“What say you,  _ hound _ ? What do you know of his murder?”

Sansa’s eyes had been bright with budding panic as she’d struggled against Lysa’s grip. She heard it before she saw it - the unmistakable scrape of a sword being unsheathed, echoed a dozen times around the hall by a dozen guards.

“I say you release the lady Stark,” the Hound growled, twisting his sword in its sheath. He hadn’t fully drawn it; only a few threatening inches of steel were visible. “So I don’t have to kill every fucking guard in this room.”

That had been the first and last time Aunt Lysa had addressed the Hound directly.

Since then, Sansa had scarcely seen him.

He was always close by. She’d asked for that herself, insisting she wanted him to stay in quarters near hers, that he be treated with respect. But her aunt kept her busy, introducing her to members of the court, parading her around like a prize mare, emphasizing the drama of her past for the sake of storytelling. The Hound was reduced to a guard, scowling and keeping watch.

Their first night in the castle, Sansa had gone looking for him. But the halls were strange and narrow and she’d gotten lost, only to be found by her wandering cousin Robin. He must’ve told his mother about Sansa’s prowling since the next day Aunt Lysa had made veiled threats about ‘guests who snoop.’

Sansa hadn’t dared go searching for the Hound again.

Instead, she felt increasingly hopeless. There was something uncanny about the atmosphere of the castle; a strangeness in the way the people averted their eyes when she looked, abandoned rooms when she entered them. It was as though she was a disease and no one wanted to risk contamination.

She finally understood why, days after arriving, when her aunt made mention of her new husband, the newly anointed Lord of the Vale.

They were taking tea in a sun-soaked room and Sansa was doing her best not to notice the Hound. He was standing off to the side, his expression neutral, looking at nothing and no one.

“- and I’ll expect you’ll be meeting the new Lord soon. My husband. An impressive man, and handsome too,” Lysa was saying, regarding Sansa with her too-focused eyes.

“I didn’t realize you had remarried,” Sansa stammered, brow furrowing as she placed her teacup in its saucer. “I should’ve congratulated you, or gotten you a gift -”

“Nonsense, sweet girl. You were a refugee. But I believe you know him? The Lord Baelish?”

It was as though Lysa’s saying his name aloud summoned him into life.

Sansa scarcely had time to register the name when the doors pushed open and in strode Littlefinger, flanked on either side by unarmored guards. Lysa stood so quickly her chair clattered to the floor behind her. Sansa stood belatedly, turning to meet the Hound’s eye with a wide-eyed look of her own.

The last time she’d seen Littlefinger, he had worked for the Lannisters. He had a brothel; he’d known her mother. Her mother had seemed to like him, but always at a wary distance. Her father hadn’t liked him at all.

_Surely,_ she thought _,_ the tea’s taste souring on her tongue _, surely_   _he_ _hadn’t_ _come_ _to_ _take_ _her_ _back_ …?

“Petyr,” Lysa exhaled breathily, hurrying up to his side. Littlefinger didn’t acknowledge her at all; he was staring at Sansa, his lips parted and his eyes narrowed, like a beast eyeing something wounded and edible. It made her want to crawl out of her skin and scrub it clean.

“My _ beloved _ .” It was Lysa again, flinging her arms around Littlefinger’s neck and pressing her mouth lewdly to his.

Sansa turned away, heat rising in her cheeks. The Hound was watching Littlefinger, something dark shifting to life behind his eyes.

_ Was I wrong _ ?

She thought of her slain mother and brother, her ruined home. The Lannisters in the south, not so far from here, doubtlessly desperate to take her heard off her shoulders for her treason.  _ Was I wrong to come here _ ?

It would explain the treatment she’d been getting from the people of the Eyrie. There was no use befriended a walking corpse. Nausea turned Sansa’s stomach on its side.

“Look who’s come to visit us - look, your niece! A scrawny thing, isn’t she? Almost homely. Just like her mother,” Lysa said, a streak of desperation to the words as she clung to Littlefinger’s side. Sansa’s mouth opened at the insult, surprised, but she closed it quickly. She was a guest here. And perhaps, after so many months in forests, she  _ had _ become homely.

She thought, fleetingly, of the Hound’s eyes on her, hot and bright with naked adoration. She suddenly found she didn’t care very much what Lysa Arryn thought of her beauty.

But Littlefinger’s thoughts mattered - if not to her, then to her aunt.

  
“Yes,” he agreed, pulling distractedly away from Lysa as he approached his new niece. “Yes… Just like Catelyn.”

The words sounded more like infatuation than insult. The Hound took a step forward; Lysa sucked in a sharp breath. Sansa wished suddenly, vehemently, that she’d never come to the Eyrie.

“I’m s-sorry I didn’t bring a gift of congratulations for such a perfect match, Aunt Lysa. Lord Baelish used to speak of you in court at the Red Keep, of your beauty and charm - he’s a lucky man, for you to finally return his affection.”

It was lies, all of it, and Littlefinger’s eyes narrowed as she spoke, his mouth quirking up at one corner in a curious sort of approval. He knew she was lying, but it had worked; Lysa’s anger had melted into simpering delight and she gazed up at her husband, clutching his arm.

“Yes!” Lysa sighed, and Littlefinger finally returned her attention. “Yes, we’re both so very lucky. And Robin, to have a father again -”

She kissed him again, a wet, invasive kiss that turned Sansa’s cheek. When she turned to the Hound, it was to find him already looking at her, his expression stony.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Sansa murmured, though her aunt didn’t seem to hear her. She could feel Littlefinger’s eyes on her back as started out of the chamber, though any fear they inspired was quashed at the familiar heavy fall of the Hound’s footsteps.

When the door to the solar closed behind them, Sansa turned to face him.

“Sandor -”

“Not here,” he growled, reaching out to nudge the small of her back. “Upstairs, girl - to your room. Send your handmaid away and I’ll come.”

Sansa did as she was told.

She paced for a moment in her airy room, wringing her hands and feeling suddenly overwarm in the strange midland gown. It was a fashion she’d never worn before, with a tight corset and a neckline that draped almost too low for propriety. Soft bell sleeves trailed like blue breezes behind her wrists. There were birds embroidered along the bodice - little birds.

The knock on her door startled her. She’d scarcely opened her mouth to answer when it was easing open, the Hound stepping inside.

Inexplicably, Sansa’s face crumpled into tears at the sight of him.

“None of that, little bird, none of that shite,” the Hound grumbled, though he sounded just as he always had with her - exasperated, affectionate. Gentle.

She shook her head and moved to hide her face in her hands but before she could, arms were encircling her and a familiar heavy heartbeat was  _ thud-thudding _ against her cheek.

“We never should have come,” she said, her voice congested with emotion. “I thought she would be kind to me - my mother loved her, and my father loved her husband. If I’d known  _ he _ would be here -”

“Aye, Littlefinger’s a cunt,” the Hound rasped, sifting a hand through her hair. “But so’s your aunt. Never seen a boy that old still at a teat. He’ll be a cunt, too.”

Sansa let out a laugh that sounded half like a sob, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing herself as close to him as she could.

“I didn’t think it would be like this,” she said, words muffled by his leather armor. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think we’d have to be apart all the time.”

The Hound tensed against her, his hand stilling in her hair. She sniffed and dragged her sleeve across her nose before turning to look up at him, her eyes shining with tears, her cheeks blotchy and uneven. The Hound’s brow was furrowed, almost in a scowl.

“Don’t.”

The rebuke, gentle as it was, had Sansa recoiling slightly, one hand still fisted loosely in his tunic as she frowned at him.

“I beg your -?”

“Things are as they are. You’re a lady, I’m a -”

“ _ Don’t  _ say -”

“ _ Dog. _ You may not like it, but it’s what it is. You can’t lose your head, girl. You can’t start dreaming of a different future. I’m to get you home, wherever that may be, and you’re to marry a lord, get the life you’ve always wanted.”

Sansa’s cheeks reddened beneath her tears as she realized what he was saying.

“You can’t tell me you have no affection for me,” she challenged, a flicker of fear breaking up the watery defiance of her eyes. The Hound made a throaty noise of frustration, looking away from her.

“Don’t,” he repeated, circling her wrist with gentle fingers and attempting to pull her away.

“No,  _ you _ don’t! You’re all I have, Sandor - you care for me, I  _ know _ you do -”

Sandor half-snarled, shaking his head in frustration.

“Aye, girl, I care for you. And if anyone else knew that, I’d care for you right into an early fucking grave,” he snapped, still gripping her wrist.

“I don’t care!” Sansa cried out, tears brimming in her eyes again, losing her head for a moment as she clutched at the Hound’s tunic. “I don’t  _ care _ ! They can bury us both, they can bury us  _ together _ -”

“ _ Enough _ .”

The force of his anger startled her into silence and for a moment they simply gazed at one another, Sansa held up limply by the Hound’s grip on her wrists, the Hound glaring down at her with a blazing intensity twisting his burned face.

And then Sansa pulled herself free, turning from him and hastily wiping at her face with her ridiculous sleeves.

Silence hung between them for a long moment, fragile as blown glass. Sansa could feel him behind her, was grateful for his presence even now. It wasn’t until she’d managed to dab her cheeks dry that she turned to him again, her expression arranged into something careful and neutral.

“And where do you fit in,” she asked calmly, lifting her chin to meet the Hound’s eye through her own reddened ones. “To this future? Me, with a lord and our babies. Where are you?”

A muscle in the Hound’s jaw jumped. She knew that meant he was grinding his teeth, knew it meant she was agitating him. She took a cruel satisfaction from it.

“I’d swear my shield to you,” he finally said, low enough to be barely perceptible, graveled enough to be a growl. “Stay in your fucking ice castle.”

She knew it was foolish, knew it was risky, but she couldn’t help herself - she pressed up on her toes and caught his lower lip between hers, kissing him slow and soft. His hands came to her waist, holding her lightly, and his breath ghosted across her lips like tension leaving his body.

When she sank back onto her heels, his eyes stayed closed for a moment. She wondered if he was remembering what she’d been remembering: the sheen of the moon on that black pool.

“We have to stay here,” she said softly, her hands resting on his chest. “I can convince Lysa to send the Knights of the Vale to Winterfell. They can drive the Ironborn out, or whoever sits there now. And you can ride home with me - see the snow.” 

The Hound opened his eyes, regarding her with the same weary fondness she’d come to know so intimately.

“Fucking hate snow.”

Sansa laughed, shaking her head as she rolled her eyes skyward.

“You hate  _ everything _ ,” she pointed out, tugging gently on the laces of his tunic.

“No, little bird. Not everything.” He cupped,  her chin in one large hand. Her smile faltered but was no less warm, though a melancholy stained it as she remembered his words - ‘ _don’t_. _Enough_.’

“No,” she conceded, leaning into his touch. “Not everything.”

And despite the Hound’s warnings, she foind herself wondering what a world like that would look like, one where she could live the feeling of the moonlit pool every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Roraly3, KarlaP, Stickywhiskers, DarkStar27, AshleyP43, and JMBH for taking time to leave comments, I love yall 😭
> 
> And to DireWaggle42 and Lady Lenneth who always go above and beyond, j’adore.
> 
> I’m sorry they made it to the Eyrie, hopefully next chapter makes up for it some... ❤️


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound eats.

Sandor spent his days fantasizing about ways to kill Petyr Baelish.

The thoughts kept him company as he stumped around the Eyrie, up the countless narrow staircases and around its  misty yards, trailing behind Sansa Stark and her mad aunt.

Littlefinger didn’t like him, Sandor was pleased to note. He’d moved Sandor’s quarters farther from Sansa’s, insisting it was improprietous to have a man so near to the chaste orphan daughter of his beloved Starks. Sandor had responded by taking up a nightly guard duty outside Sansa’s door, much to Littlefinger’s frustration and Sansa’s delight.

The first night she’d discovered him there he’d been sitting on the floor opposite her door, idly sharpening his shortsword and listening to the distant sound of a waterfall. When her door had cracked open, a single blue eye had peered out at him.

“Sandor!” she’d whispered, the door opening more fully to reveal her smiling, sleepy face. “But Littlefinger said -“

“Fuck Littlefinger. Go back to bed, girl.”

The whetstone had dragged down the blade. Sansa’s answering smile, small and earnest, had made the ache of hard stone at his back well worth it. She’d hesitated at the door a moment longer before drawing it closed, leaving Sandor both grateful and disappointed.

  
He’d put the night of her tears from his mind and done his best to be especially careful around her since. The sentiments she’d expressed were dangerous and foolish; he knew, had always known, that Sansa Stark would never be his, and that she shouldn’t be. 

The life he could give her was no life at all, nomadic and bedded with resentment and violence. He wasn’t gentle, not like she needed. He would be a shit lover; he would make a shit father. He would resent her for her softness in time, and take to drinking and fighting and whoring. She’d have to sacrifice everything to be with him and in return, she would gain nothing.

Nothing but a scarred dog from a dying house.

No, he couldn’t love her right. But he could keep her alive long enough for her to find someone who could, and keep her safe from lesser men who tried.

Men like Petyr fucking Baelish.

Littlefinger’s sudden appearance had unnerved him - unnerved them both - though it quickly became apparent it wasn’t Sansa he was after but the Vale, all of it. Sansa seemed an afterthought, a bonus he wasn’t sure what to do with. And while the Hound knew he was a cunt, he didn’t think he was a threat.

Not to Sansa’s safety, anyway. Her innocence was a different matter.

Whenever Littlefinger passed Sansa without Lysa near - in corridors, most often - he would stop her and take her by the hand. He would stand very close to her and speak lowly and urgently, his lips inches from Sansa’s, his eyes sweeping invasively over her face. Sansa always endured it with grace, her spine a straight line, her eyes on his, but the Hound knew her better.

“Could kill him, you know,” he suggested one afternoon, when he was trailing behind her on her way to the godswood. Just like in King’s Landing, she’d taken to spending large chunks of time in the wood, where Lysa and Littlefinger couldn’t reach her. She often brought something to do - today, it was a bolt of fabric and her little velvet bag of needles and thread. She’d been laboring over something for days, always stowing it away when he came too near.

“We can’t  _ kill _ him,” Sansa said, exasperated despite her smile. “He’s acting Lord of the Vale, we’d be thrown through the moon door in an instant - if not me, you. They don’t like you very much.”

The Hound shrugged, utterly unbothered by this.

“Just keep your dagger on you,” he said, before nearly running full on into her. She’d stopped suddenly in the corridor, turning to look up at him and seizing the hem of her skirts in hand.

“Seven hells, girl -” he swore, twisting to look behind them and make sure they were alone. “Not  _ here _ -“

“You said once you’d only be scared of it if it had teeth,” Sansa interrupted, hoisting her skirts up - high up, high enough to afford Sandor a long glimpse of her naked thigh, at the top of which was the unmistakable gleam of his dagger’s hilt. Its sheath was bound to her thigh by a scrap of embroidered fabric, something he realized she’d  _ made _ .

“Well. Now it has teeth,” Sansa smirked, letting her skirts drop with a swish of fabric.

Sandor’s trousers had become uncomfortably tight. He tried to glare at her but he was too proud, something she must’ve caught since she flashed him a triumphant grin.

“Good girl,” he murmured, doing his best to recover as he fell in step behind her once more. “And you remember how to use it?”

“Across the throat, at the back of the neck, in the heart -”

“Fuck’s sake, a ‘yes’ is enough,” Sandor snapped, though it was without his usual sting. Sansa only laughed. She was happier today than usual. She was always happier when they got a moment alone. Sandor tried not to dwell on it.

He lingered at the doorway to the small godswood just as he always did, just as propriety demanded. When Sansa passed him, she reached out and gave his gloved hand a gentle squeeze.

“Little bird -” he began, warning. Sansa’s only answer was another laugh, merry and sweet, trailing back to him from the godswood.

_ It would be enough _ , he thought to himself.  _ Even if she were with some cunt lord. It would be enough to hear her laugh. _

Nights later, he was thinking of this same laugh as he climbed the steps of her tower. She had gone to bed early that evening, escorted by her handmaids. When he’d stood to follow, she’d waved him off, pink-cheeked from sweet wine and bright-eyed from the company of friends she’d made. 

“Go and drink, go and do something  _ you _ enjoy - the girls will be my company until you’re finished.”

It had sounded more like command than suggestion. Had they been alone, not surrounded by perfumed lords and ladies, Sandor might have told her no, followed her anyway. But here, she was his only compass, his only lady; Sansa and only Sansa.

So he’d obeyed.

He had gone to the kitchens and eaten his fill without a word to anyone, not even to the pretty serving girl who had batted her eyelashes at him. He’d had ale but not enough to get drunk; he’d simply bided his time and allowed Sansa her small autonomy.

But it had been long enough and he was wary to leave her alone too long in a strange castle with Littlefinger prowling about.

When he reached her door, he pressed his good ear to it. There only sound bleeding through the heavy wood was the faint rustling of sheets.

_ Good,  _ he thought.  _ She made it to bed _ .

He wouldn’t stay all night - he never stayed all night. Just until the darkness had broken through its deepest hour and dawn was beginning to drag its soft belly into view.

He settled into his spot against the opposite wall, one hand loose on the hilt of his shortsword, his eyes drifting closed. He wasn’t drunk - not even close - but his belly was full and content from rich meat, his blood languid and satisfied from fine ale.

He must’ve dozed, since he found himself jerking suddenly awake at a sound.

He blinked, brow furrowing, waiting for his eyes to readjust to the darkness. Her door was still closed; no one had come down the corridor. He would’ve woken, no matter how quiet. It was his mind playing tricks -

But no. There it came again, a sound that turned his blood to ice, a sound he knew well since he had locked it away in his mind to touch when he was alone like some beloved, private trinket.

It was Sansa -

Sansa, moaning.

It came a third time, distant as a dream but real as his heartbeat. A whimper, cut off at the end, like a hand had been slapped over her mouth.

_ I’ll take his fucking head off his fucking shoulders _ , Sandor thought, blinded momentarily by vicious fury as he pictured what Littlefinger was doing to her. He came at the door like a charging bull, twisting the knob cursorily as he slammed through it, his sword drawn and his teeth bared -

Only to be met with Sansa’s muffled scream and the sight of her  _ own _ hand clapped over her mouth.

He realized what was happening in very quick fragments as the candlelight threw itself in flickers over the scene.

The room was empty save for Sansa in her bed - alone, in her bed. The sheets were twisted up around her body, naked everywhere he could see. His white cloak was wrapped around her torso. At the sight of him, she’d snatched her hand from between her legs, bringing it to join its twin over her mouth. Her cheeks were vividly pink; her hair was tousled.

She’d been touching herself.

“Fucking hell,” Sandor growled, half-irritable though his eyes were bright and fixated on her as she hurried to drag the bedclothes up. “Thought it was Littlefinger -  _ fuck _ , girl. You’ve got to be quieter than that.”

“Close the door,” Sansa hissed, her eyes flashing through the embarrassment. Sandor turned to obey, smirking to himself. He knew he should go - it was flirting with suicide, to do what he was thinking of doing. To do what he  _ wanted  _ to do.

… When he closed the door, it was with him on the wrong side of it. The scrape of the bolt emphasized his intentions.

“Sandor,” Sansa breathed, sitting up in bed.

“Quiet, little bird. Keep your hand over your mouth. If we get caught, it’ll be just as you wanted - one or both of us, through that fucking moon door.”

She nodded, mouth clamped shut, watching with a rapturous focus as Sandor carefully removed his weapons. He set them down, one after the other, and his boots beside them, until he was able to silently make his way to her bed.

She pulled away the cloak and the bedclothes before he reached her, naked and unashamed, staring up at him with an eager challenge. His eyes were slow as they took in her body once again, the heavy weight of her breasts, the dark dot of her navel. The inviting softness of her thighs.

She held her arms out and he fell into them without thought, catching her mouth in a kiss and tasting her tongue as she peeled away his leather armor, his tunic. Everything until he was bare from the waist up.

“I want to feel it again,” she breathed in his ear as he ran his hands over her body. “What you did, in the pool - I want it again. I keep trying and I can’t get it, it’s never quite right -“

He groaned against her neck and slid a hand between her legs. She was slick, so wet, and he teased her clit with his thumb. Her entire body shivered beneath his.

“Can’t do this again, little bird,” he murmured, kissing along her collarbone. He was moving south, dragging his mouth along her chest. “Not after tonight. Swear to me you’ll be quieter - swear you’ll use that dagger on me if I try.”

“I’d never,” Sansa sighed, only to take in a sharp breath as Sandor sucked her nipple into his mouth. He hadn’t dared to slide his fingers into her before, not with the uncertainty of the water, but he could tell by the wet of her she was ready for it now. When he eased two into her, slow and filling, her entire body arched up to meet him, her breath catching in her throat.

“Hound -  _ Sandor  _ -“ she gasped, clutching at his shoulder, rolling her hips against his hand. He didn’t know why but it was hearing her call him ‘Hound’ that drove him to it, his little bird so bold and brash. One moment, he was fingering her, watching with relish as she writhed against the sheets.

And the next he’d withdrawn his hands only to press his mouth to her cunt, his tongue laving over her.

He slapped a hand over her mouth just in time. Her cry died against his palm as her hips ground against his mouth.

“Keep  _ quiet _ , girl,” he hissed, his eyes briefly meeting hers. His hand was still covering half her face; her eyes were very wide, her pupils overlarge. She was flushed from her cheeks to her breasts.

When he tasted her again, her entire body shivered.

He stayed there for what felt like a small, glorious eternity, worshiping her like a zealot at altar He couldn’t stop, even as his knees began to protest the hard floor and her hands slipped into his hair, pulling. He dipped his tongue into her, ate of her, inhaled the scent of her. When he teased at her clit, she made sounds like sobs; when he pressed his tongue into her cunt, she dug her heels into his back.

It surprised them both when Sansa suddenly came. She had the wherewithal to hold his hand tight to her mouth, her entire body tensing and relaxing as he coaxed her through it. She ground her hips against his mouth, rude and perfect, and Sandor had to pass a hand across the front of his trousers to relieve the aching tension there.

She said something, muffled, and Sandor finally took his hand away from her mouth -

“ _ Yes _ ,” she whispered, her arms falling limply to her sides. Sandor drew back and dragged a hand over his chin. For a moment, he stared; he’d never seen this part of her body and it was laid bare to him, the downy ginger hair, the sweet pink lips. All of Sansa Stark, edible and his.

For now.

He knew he’d stayed too long already, loathe as he was too leave her. He rose slowly, ignoring the dull ache in his knees, and began gathering up his clothes and armor.

“No - no, wait,” Sansa said, breathless and dreamy from the bed. “Sandor - you can’t just… just do  _ that _ and then go.”

“Can’t stay, little bird, you know I can’t,” he murmured, pausing to look at her. She was spilled out over the fine blue sheets like a fallen shooting star, flame trailing behind her in the red of her hair. It almost seemed worth it, a swift death to lie with her once. But it wasn’t his own ruin he feared.

“I know. But just - just for a moment. Please - hold me, before you go.”

It was not a difficult choice.

He set everything quietly back down and slid into the bed with her, naked but for his breeches and smallclothes, both of which she set out to removing.

He growled in warning. But she turned her face up to his and gave a sleepy, confident smile, pulling the laces free.

“I won’t. I just want to feel how it felt, when it was just us and nothing else. I promise.”

It was a bad idea. It was all a bad idea. But hadn’t this - hadn’t  _ she _ \- been a bad idea from the start? A bad one, and his very best?

He helped her remove his clothes until he was as naked as she, lying side by side facing one another in the dark. He was lying on his right side and she was touching him again, gentle fingers barely perceptible on the ruined side of his face.

“It doesn’t scare you anymore,” he said, watching her watch him.

“No,” she agreed, her eyes flickering over to his, her mouth flickering into a smile. “It’s just ‘you’ now. I’ve come to love it.”

It was dangerous. It was so very dangerous. He heard what she didn’t say, what she had essentially said:  _ I’ve come to love you _ .

“Little bird…”

“Call me by my name,” she whispered, her eyes two stars in the blue Vale night.

The Hound couldn’t say it. He couldn’t say anything. So he kissed her.

He meant it to be a soft, shallow thing but her hands came to him and he was the tide to her moon, drawn in without recourse. Her body was so soft and inviting; he felt it again against his, but different now without the water to interrupt. It was skin on skin and everything was on fire. His head was clouding over. Her mouth tasted faintly like wine, sweet wine. He turned them until he was on top of her and her legs tried to open to his but no,  _ no _ , he at least had the wherewithal to stop her there. But when he reached down to hold her in place, her legs were slippery from her own arousal, pressed together and soft…

“Sansa,” he rasped, his weight on both his elbows, his legs astride her hips.

She stared up at him with so much hot affection he felt his heart might burst with it.

When he sunk his hips down, it was no threat to her maidenhead. Instead, it was between her thighs he slid his cock, and she let out a pleasurable breath.

“Shouldn’t -“ he grit out, his thoughts wretched, guilt and reproach warring with ardor and desire.

Sansa seized his face and kissed him, just as she had in the forest so many moons ago.

He did not stop again.

He fucked her soft, sweet thighs until he spilled between them, until his cheek was pillowed on her breast and his breathing returned to him slowly. She combed her fingers through his hair and it took a moment for him to realize she was humming - a slow, mournful song, one he knew but couldn’t place. One that would remind him of her for years to come.

“Sansa,” he eventually said, his voice a croak.

“I know,” she whispered.

This time, she did not stop him as he stood and dressed, only watched him with a sleepy smile from her bed. Sandor did his best not to look at her too much; every time he did, the urgent need to fall on his own sword was all the more tempting, because what was the point in living if not with her?

But he could live  _ for _ her. He could do anything for her.

He slung both swords over one arm and turned toward the door. When he reached it, he couldn’t resist; he turned back to see her once more only to find her smiling at him, radiant as the dawn.

“I knew you’d look back,” she whispered, shifting against the bedclothes. Her entire body was bared to him, as if it was his to see. “I knew you would.”

“Enough,” he said, but he was smiling, too, as he shook his head and pulled the door closed behind him.

A smile that was gone as he heard what sounded like footsteps receding - too far to know for sure, but too close for Sandor to get any sleep that night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to SteampoweredWitch, Juliawantsbellarke, SnowInSeptember, Kezzie369, Stickywhiskers, and entwinedwedream for leaving comments ❤️
> 
> And of course Lady Lenneth for leaving a small volume for ME to read which makes me feel a part of everything and DireWaggle42 just for existing.
> 
> I love you ALL, these two weeks have been so much fun! KarlaP - here’s your intracrural. Ask and ye shall receive.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa makes a mistake.

“You seem to be taking well to the Vale, my dear.”

Sansa looked up from her plate, returning Littlefinger’s scrutinizing smile with a small one of her own.

“Yes,” she agreed, resisting the urge to look over at the Hound where he stood by the door. “I think it’s the waterfall, my lord, outside my window - so soothing.”

“Alyssa’s Tears,” Lysa supplied, proud as though she’d not only named the fall but hewn it and cried it herself. “The name of the fall, one of our biggest. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

She lapsed into a soliloquy about Alyssa, the woman of the Vale who had wept a waterfall. Sansa scarcely heard her. She was distracted by her cousin Robin. She’d still not gotten accustomed to the way he ambled up and shoved his mother’s dress aside to nurse, his eyes lazily drifting around the room as he did.

Sansa’s expression betrayed her with momentary disgust, but she was quick to school it into something more pleasant. She glanced up to ensure no one had seen only to find Littlefinger was still watching her. It seemed he was always watching her.

Lysa was still speaking when the maester - a thin, reedy man with watery eyes - bowed his way into the room, a scroll in his hand. Sansa tried to glimpse the seal but all she saw was purple.

“A raven, my lord. From a friend,” the maester murmured, handing it not to Lysa but Littlefinger. This finally made Lysa give pause, her face pinching as she watched Littlefinger slit the seal. Robin still suckled at her breast.

“What is it, my sweet?” she asked in her high, trilling voice. Her husband did not answer. Sansa watched him through her lashes, saw his lips thin and his brows lift. Lysa leaned over as far as she could, anchored by Robin’s mouth, her lips pulled down sourly.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Baelish’s strange accent was breathier than usual, his eyes unnervingly bright. He didn’t acknowledge his wife at all. “I must answer this.”

Before he left, it was Sansa his eyes lingered on.

Sansa kept her head down but could feel the heat of Lysa’s glower, knew exactly the ugly shape her mouth was making around unsaid words. She might have scared Sansa, had Sansa not spent so many months under a similar scrutiny from a far more frightening woman.

“My dear niece,” Lysa finally said, her voice as sweet as feversweat, her smile strained and unseemly. Sansa returned it as best she could, her appetite suddenly gone. “Whatever will we do with you?”

“I don’t know, Aunt Lysa,” Sansa demurred, pushing back from the table. “I beg your pardon, I feel compelled to make a trip to the godswood.”

“Yes,” Lysa agreed, breathless with relief. “Yes, out of sight - very good.” To Robin, she whispered, “Come, my darling. It is just us now.”

Sansa could not walk quickly enough out of the dining hall.

The Hound’s footsteps belied his presence behind her, a talisman warm and hidden against her chest. She found herself biting down on a smile as she remembered the night before and couldn’t resist turning catch his eye.

He only narrowed his.

When they were nearly at the strange, man-made little wood, Sansa turned.

“Last night -“ she began, but the Hound’s glare was Valyrian-sharp.

“Only stupid men and girls get hanged for running their mouths,” he said, shaking his head. Sansa wanted to scoff; they were alone, after all. No one but the godswood to hear them, a barren foreign godswood without a heart tree. Sansa wasn’t sure if the old gods came here at all.

“Fine. Then I’ll just say thank you.” She lifted her chin primly, though there was a lick of mischief living in the corner of her smile, in the lowness of her eyelashes. The Hound’s eyes glittered with humor.

“Say your prayers, my lady,” he growled, nodding towards the small wood. “And I’ll remember the prayers I made last night.”

Heat flushed her cheeks and he chuckled, the sound of his soft, coarse laughter following her all the way to the center of the wood.

She was still smiling as she brought out her project. She’d been working on it for days - it was his cloak, his old white cloak, but changed. She’d finally washed it, for one, but even with a good scrubbing and hard soap the material remained grayed. 

It was no matter.

She was covering it all up, laboring over each stitch, the yellow and gray and black moving fluidly along the shoulders and back in a smooth fade of color. At the bottom, she had stitched the outlines of two beasts - a dog and a wolf, face to face.

_ He’ll tease me _ , she thought as she settled onto her stone bench and began to sew.  _ He’ll laugh at me for being sentimental, and then he’ll never take it off. _

She was smiling as she imagined it, the Hound grumpily pressing his new cloak to her cheek, when a voice from nearby interrupted her work.

“Lady Sansa.”

She gasped in pain. She’d slipped a stitch and pricked the pad of her finger, a bright bead of blood bubbling in its place.

“ _ Ow _ ,” she winced, pressing the fingertip to her lips. As she did, Littlefinger stepped into view, hands clasped behind his back, eyes shrewd as ever. Sansa immediately shifted her legs, soothed by the hard line of the dagger at her thigh.

“My apologies, my lady - I did not meant to startle you.”

“How did you get here?” Sansa demanded, wrong-footed and flustered.

“There is more than one entrance to the godswood.”

She sucked at her fingertip before lowering her hand.

“You’re not meant to come here, not unless you’re praying.” Sansa felt suddenly very juvenile, like a child hiding behind her mother’s skirts.

“I didn’t want us to be overheard,” Littlefinger’s voice was strained and strange as always. Sansa only eyed him with wary mistrust. “Your protector - Joffrey’s Hound. He follows you so closely, and after his ties to the Lannisters -“

“Sandor Clegane has proven his loyalty to me time and time again,” Sansa said, boldness back in her voice as she set her sewing down and lifted her chin. “Anything you want to say to me, you can say before him.”

“I admire your trust, my lady, but there are some matters too delicate, too precious, to risk.”

He took a step nearer and Sansa rose, too, swift and tense like a prey animal about to run. As if he sensed it, Littlefinger stilled and held out a hand - in it was a scroll. 

A scroll with a purple seal.

“What do you want,” Sansa asked flatly, eyeing the scroll and her uncle with mistrust.

“To help you,” he purred, holding the scroll out further. Sansa squared her jaw and ignored it.

“Why.”

“I loved your mother more than anyone in the world, and I failed her. It would be some small reparation, to help one of Catelyn Tully’s daughters…”

Sansa eyed him warily, her mouth pursed.

“But I could perhaps sleep again, knowing I’d helped  _ two _ .”

He gave the scroll a little flick just as Sansa’s eyes widened.

“Arya?” she breathed, hardly daring to believe it. This time when Baelish gestured with the scroll, she snatched it from his hands, unrolling it rapidly and reading the short, spiky message within.

_ Arya Stark alive. Masquerading in boys clothing. With the Brotherhood. _

“How do you know?” Sansa demanded, emotion burning at the base of her throat, tears threatening at the backs of her eyes. “That it’s true, that Arya’s -? That she’s -?”

“If Lord Varys’ spies say Arya Stark is alive, then Arya Stark is  _ alive _ .”

A shallow sob wrenched out of Sansa’s chest and she brought a hand up to cover her mouth.

It was too good to believe; it was too much to hope for. Arya, alive. Another Stark in the world.  _ Family _ .

“I know you would do anything to have her back,” Littlefinger said in his soft, slithering voice. Sansa hardly noticed; she was nodding, tears tracking down her cheeks.

“I’d send the Knights of the Vale if I could, but it would start a war. They’d kill her the instant they saw the banners, the armor, and we’d have Lannisters at our door for invading our lands.”

“We can call our bannermen - the men in the north, they’ll fight for her, they’ll  _ save  _ her -“

“After your brother executed Lord Karstark, they’re as likely to savage her as to save her.”

Sansa exhaled a shuddering, miserable sound at the thought of Robb, at the thought of Arya suffering for someone else’s choices.

“But we have to save her - Lord Baelish, if she’s alive, we  _ have _ to save her, please, I’ll do anything -”

Something vicious and triumphant glittered in Littlefinger’s dark eyes, too brief for Sansa to see.

“Do you have no one you could ask? No skilled fighters who could go, pluck her out, and bring her back to safety at the Vale?”

Sansa realized a beat too late who he meant, her face paling at the thought of it.

“No,” she said, low and heavy. “ _ No.  _ He can’t go. He’s all I have, he keeps me safe -“

“Safe? From whom? From your own kin, your mother’s sister? From the sickly little Sweetrobin?”

Sansa eyed him mistrustfully, unwilling to say it. He understood a moment later; his scoff was theatrical, as if he’d perhaps known all along but had just wanted to hear her say it.

“From  _ me _ , who has proven his loyalty to the Starks time and time again? Sansa, my dear girl, you are my niece now. I would never let any harm come to you or your honor, I swear it upon my life.”

Sansa’s expression must not have changed to his liking, since his mouth twitched in a cruel flicker and his voice was silky smooth as he added,

“No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t allow anyone to sneak into your rooms at night. Least of all dogs, to crawl into your bed and infest it with fleas.”

Sansa knew with a sickening, grinding skip of her heart that Littlefinger knew. He knew it all; he knew the affection in her heart, lining it like down. He knew the memory of Sandor’s mouth between her thighs. He knew, somehow, the moonlit pool, and every dream she’d had about it since.

She felt like she might be sick.

“It would be a tragedy for everyone, were that to happen… You know, I’m sure, that in the Vale, the punishment for bringing such dishonor on a highborn lady is death.”

His eyes were studying her expression so closely it felt as though they were gouging past the skin, drawing blood and bad humor to the surface. Sansa clenched her jaw and gave him nothing, even as her bones hollowed out, weak with fear.

“And if I send Sandor Clegane to retrieve Arya,” Sansa said quietly, staring up into Littlefinger’s ratlike face, “You’ll allow him to bring her here, and for us to leave for Winterfell when it’s safe to do so?”

“You have my word.”

They eyed one another for a moment longer before Sansa turned, gathered her cloak, and left.

When Sansa emerged from the godswood with Littlefinger at her back, the Hound’s expression registered shock and then murder. Sansa shot him a wide-eyed look, staying his hand, as Littlefinger spoke.

“The throne room,” he said to Sansa, eyes flickering briefly to the Hound. “Quickly, my lady.”

Sansa waited until he’d turned the corner before addressing the Hound.

“Sandor-“

“You’ve been crying,” he snarled, seizing her chin and forcing it up, turning her face this way and that as though inspecting it for marks. “What did he do to you? What did he say?”

“Nothing -  _ nothing _ ,” Sansa said, wrenching out of his grip and. She began hurrying down the corridor, the Hound close at her heels. “He showed me the message, the one from the raven - Arya, she’s alive. She’s  _ alive _ .”

The Hound’s expression clouded over.

“Are you sure-?”

“The letter was from Lord Varys. Have you known Lord Varys to be wrong? He says she’s with the Brotherhood, disguised as a boy -“

“ _ Fucking  _ Brotherhood,” Sandor swore. Sansa ignored him.

“Sandor - Sandor, please - will you get her?”

She heard the Hound stop and stalled out as well, wringing her hands as she turned to look at him. His expression was all sharp lines and anger. Sansa wrung her hands, anxious and confused, unsure why she both wanted him to say yes  _ and  _ no.

“Can’t leave you here,” he finally growled as they began walking again. “You’re not safe, you said it yourself. We wait for Winterfell -“

“But I  _ am _ safe here, far safer than Arya is out there. Sandor, please, you’re the only one who can bring her back. You’re the only one I trust.”

Sansa remembered Littlefinger’s thinly veiled threat.  _ And you’re not safe here _ , she thought.

The Hound said nothing but ground his teeth. Sansa could hear it, the ugly scrape of bone, and she thought of calling it off; ‘nevermind,’ she could say, ‘come to me tonight.’

But then she thought of Arya, lost in the woods with dangerous men, and her feet moved of their own accord.

There was silence as they walked, the light of the throne rooms high windows just ahead. Just before they entered, the Hound spoke, soft and almost shy.

“Could take you with me.”

Sansa turned to him, hope sparking in the blue of her eyes. She hadn’t considered that but she  _ could _ go too. It could be just as it was, just as it had been in the moonlit pool…

“ _ Sansa, my sweet _ !”

It was her aunt Lysa’s voice from the throne room, cracking the moment in two.

“After,” Sansa whispered urgently. In a rush of boldness, she reached out and touched the Hound’s burned cheek. Just as bold, he turned his face and pressed his scarred lips to her fingertips. Heat arrowed straight down to her core.

When she turned and strode into the throne room, her fingers were tingling.

There were more guards in it than she’d ever seen before.

Belatedly, far too belatedly, she wondered if they hadn’t walked into a trap.

“My darling niece,” Lysa crooned from the throne, gesturing for Sansa to come up. Sansa hesitated, looking at the Hound; he caught her eye and gave the tiniest of nods, barely perceptible. She swallowed down her hammering heart and ascended the stairs, quickly counting every guard in the room - a dozen, at least. Maybe more.

Surely they weren’t all for the Hound. Surely nothing was going to happen to him - not here. Not now.

_ The Hound can kill twelve men _ , Sansa thought fiercely as she approached her aunt Lysa.  _ He can kill them all and we can leave - we can run. _

“To me, my darling,” Lysa said, beckoning Sansa closer. On her left stood Littlefinger, watching the proceedings with a small, enigmatic smile.

When Sansa reached Lysa, he addressed the Hound.

“Sandor Clegane. Has the lady Sansa confided in you your mission?”

Sandor didn’t answer. Instead he stared, stony-faced, up at Littlefinger, his eyes coals-hot with anger.

“Perhaps not. We have a request to make of you, a sensitive confidential mission -“

“I don’t serve you, Baelish,” the Hound growled. “The lady has already asked, and I will do it. But I’m not leaving her behind when I go.”

Sansa’s heart leapt at the confidence of his words - only to sink, heavy and sudden, as Lysa’s bony fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist.

“And how does this brute presume to take her?” Lysa asked, addressing Littlefinger as though the Hound were not there at all. “She may have been easy to kidnap from the Lannisters, but we are no Lannisters.”

“He didn’t kidnap me! He asked and I said yes - he  _ saved  _ me, I have to go with him -“

“You poor kitten!” Lysa cried out, louder still than Sansa, “Brainwashed by the dog, tricked and lied to -“

“I wasn’t! He never would, _ never _ , he fought for me and killed for me -“ Sansa burst out, tears springing to her eyes once more.

“A killer and a brute - a danger to our house!” Lysa rang out, only to fall suddenly silent as Littlefinger lifted a lazy hand.

“We are willing to grant you a full pardon, Clegane, if you’ll bring back the youngest lady Stark, safe and sound.”

Sansa was shaking her heard, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Fuck off,” Sandor spat. “Don’t need your pardon, you whoring cunt -“

Like ghastly windchimes, the sudden sound of drawn swords rippled through the throne room. Sandor had his own drawn in a blink, his eyes still on Sansa.

“You cannot take the lady Sansa from here. It isn’t safe on the roads for a Stark,” Baelish said, sliding his fingers together until they were laced.

“It’s not safe here for her,” the Hound countered, sword still drawn. Around him, the guards were exchanging glances. “She’s safest with me.”

Lysa’s laugh was cold and ringing, flung back to them in faded variants from every corner of the high ceiling.

“Please, Aunt Lysa - please, let me go with him -“

“You must not know the Brotherhood very well, girl, else you’d know every moment we stand here idly conversing is another grain shaved off your sister’s life!”

Lysa’s voice was high and cruel as she twisted to look Sansa in the face.

“And how do you presume to help the dog? Will you do anything but slow him down? Will you risk being the reason your sister is killed?”

Sansa had no reply. Her mouth opened but her throat was stuck; tears pricked at the backs of her eyes, shame and loneliness and heartbreak.

Sandor seemed to know what she was going to say before she said it.

“Little bird, come with me -“

“You have to go find her,” Sansa said, words thick with unshed tears. “You have to find her and bring her back. You have to  _ come back _ .”

Sandor’s look could’ve lanced through her.

“Said I’d not leave you with anyone whose name isn’t Stark,” he spat, sword still held fast in a sure grip. “Not anyone.”

“There are no Starks left but two. And by now, there could only be one.”

It was Baelish who had said it, impassive as if he was relaying the weather. Sansa pressed a hand to her mouth to cover the effect of his words.

The Hound was still looking at her, though instead of angry, his face had split open. It was all raw emotion, desperation and something else - something she felt down to her bones, into the hinges of her joints and the base of her tongue.

“Sansa,” he rasped, taking a step forward, reaching his free hand out imploringly. Littlefinger watched with a viperlike focus before feigning misunderstanding and plunging a hand into his doublet.

“Ah, of course. You’ll be wanting coin. We have gold for your troubles -“

He dragged a bag heavy with coins from his pockets and tossed it to the Hound. The Hound’s sword sliced up to meet it, splitting the black velvet and sending a cascade of glittery yellow coins spilling onto the floor.

“Fuck your money,” he snarled, “and fuck you. Sansa - Sansa, come with me. I’ll take you home. We’ll find her.”

Lysa’s fingers tightened around Sansa’s wrist, a silent warning. She was staring hatefully at the Hound, her soldiers readied and watching her, waiting on a command. Sansa thought of what Littlefinger had said -  _ the punishment is death _ .

“Sandor, please,” Sansa said, her voice wavering. Her cheeks and eyes had reddened with unshed tears and her chin dimpled with emotion. “Please, go. Find her and bring her back. Come back to me.”

She would wonder, much later, if the seething, gut-deep hatred boiling in Sandor’s eyes had been meant for her uncle and aunt or for her alone.

Regardless, these were the last words she would say to Sandor Clegane for several long years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anniew1921, a_lady, SouthronWildling, RaiMagnolia, vulncrasanentur, Properhaunt8, KarlaP, Veronica, legslegs, and Stickywhiskers for commenting!!
> 
> And for DireWaggle42 whose comments are on steroids.
> 
> I’m sorry for this ending, but IT’S NOT OVER YET!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound and Sansa endure.

Time swelled between them like sound.

It was a whisper first, then a murmur. It became a sharp yell that stretched into a long, loud lull. Then it slid into the sort of silence you feel in your head, the pounding, pressing silence that feels like a hand over your mouth. Until it was not a quiet but a vacuum, until it was not a whisper but a year, two years, too many years. 

Until the Hound began to think any love he’d ever had had been carved right out.

Sandor found Arya Stark and came to love the cold little bitch. She was a killer, more ruthless than he, though he’d never have told her as much. He loved her right up until the moment she left him for dead, and kept loving her beyond. 

But it was her sister he thought of always - Sansa, lovely Sansa, his fiery little bird with her needles and wit, left on a mountaintop with vipers. He knew he never should have left her. He should have speared his sword through Littlefinger’s chest and cut down every guard in the room, or died trying. Every day he continued living was atonement; every miserable act of his miserable life was reparations.

When Ray the Pious found him, felled by Brienne of Tarth and inches from death, Sandor had thought him to be god.

He had been delirious with fever, his leg split in two and the rot eating away at his wounds. Flies had settled in the pulp of his torn skin. Pain had ceased being painful and had instead become his constant and only companion, the steady, all-over ache he felt in his teeth, his ears, his cock. Everything hurt. It was what he deserved.

But somehow he lived.

He lived and he found himself with a band of pious cunts, all of whom feared him.

_ Good _ , he thought savagely, as he ate their food and drank their mead and helped build their sept.  _ They should fear me. Everyone should fucking fear me. The mad, useless hound. _

It wasn’t until Ray sat beside him one afternoon and laughed in his face - a kind laugh, always so kind and blunt - that Sandor dared challenge his faith.

“If gods are real,” he growled, fingers greasy with food, leg still aching from Brienne’s clever sword, “why haven’t they punished me?”

Why had he lived? Why did he live while Sansa was without him - somewhere in Westeros, doubtlessly suffering?

“They have,” Ray had said, eyes twinkling with humor. 

Ray had been murdered soon after, and the Hound had avenged him. Then he’d done the last thing he’d ever expected to do. He’d joined the Brotherhood.

By the time Sandor heard of Sansa’s marriage to the bastard Bolton, it was already over.

He heard the worst of it at Eastwatch, when he was taken prisoner by Jon fucking Snow.

It was fragments of information, shards that all pricked him, dragging and cutting up his insides until he felt full of hot shame and fury. 

Sansa had been married off to the Bolton bastard by Littlefinger and kept prisoner at Winterfull, her own home. The bastard had beaten her and worse, ripped through her maidenhead and taken relish in her suffering. 

“She’s still pretty,” one of the gossiping guards had added, shrugging as if it was an afterthought. “Bit of a bitch now, though.”

The only comfort Sandor could take was that she was safe. Or as safe as she could be, with rumors of Littlefinger’s presence at Winterfell. But Jon had mentioned Arya - Arya was there, too. Arya and Sansa, both his reasons for living, safe at home.

He had gone as far as he could go with the Stark girls. He had gone as far as he could go in life. He wanted to find Gregor and slaughter him, but he wanted other things more - other things he’d never have with a woman he’d never see again.

Because Jon Snow needed him to go north of the wall.

This time, he would embrace death if it came for him. He had lived for hate, and he had lived for revenge; he could leave those unfinished if it was his time.

But death did not come for him.

Not even as an army of it dragged across frozen waters to tear him apart; not even as the king of death, the Night King himself, oversaw the destruction of Jon Snow and his men. Sandor fought for Jon because he fought for Sansa, and somehow he made it out alive - made it out alive only to drag himself back to King’s Landing escorting a dead man and a band of cunts, with the fucking dragon queen at his back.

He saw his brother. He stared into Gregor’s ugly, ruined eyes. And he realized Gregor Clegane was dead - he had died a long time ago. The monster wearing his armor was no Clegane at all.

Revenge no longer existed as a reason to live. Hate was no longer enough.

He would stay alive a little longer, to fight back the army of the dead. To preserve Sansa’s home. To preserve her life.

He never saw her before the Long Night. He looked for her everywhere; in every shadow, in every passing face. Every flicker of coppery red turned his head; every lilting northern accent.

“The women and children are in the crypts,” he heard Davos say, and realized his opportunity had gone. He had wanted to see her before he died; just once more. It was too much to wish to know the soft of her mouth on his, too much to hope to hold her like he once had. 

She was changed now, surely; whatever love she’d had for him must have been the adolescent infatuation of an innocent. He knew she had grown up too much to love him, seen too much of the world to ever desire him again. Might not forgive him for leaving her behind.

But he’d have like to have seen her, just seen the blue of her eyes and the red of her hair, just once more before he died.

The Long Night came. The dead descended. The dragons came and with them, destruction. Fire devoured everything until Sandor’s head was pounding, his veins clogged with fear. He had given up; he had given up, the smell of ash and blood and bile twisting up into his own personal horror, until he’d seen her - Arya.

_ Arya and Sansa _ , he remembered, squinting through the fire.  _ Arya and Sansa _ .

He ran through fire. He found Arya and stayed at her back. He watched Beric die, and watched as the Red Woman sent her off, knew without knowing what it was she would do. 

And then, somehow, it was over.

It was over, and Sandor had lived.

And all he wanted to do was see the blue of her eyes and the red of her hair, just once more.

\---

Time piled up between them like snow.

It came in eddies and in drifts, in furious blizzards and in silent dustings. It made a rift and then filled it in, melting as moons passed until it was not a stream but a river, until it was not a year but two, but three, but too many.

Until Sansa began to think any safety she’d ever felt had been a dream. 

Ramsay Bolton had been handsome the first time she’d seen him.

He had very blue eyes and a strong jaw, a clever-looking mouth and teeth that flashed with something wolfish and charming. He had paid her genteel compliments and welcomed her home - back into her home, the home she’d been pining for ever since she’d left it.

But it was different now.

Skinned bodies froze on crosses, bloody and terrifying, mouths wrenched open in perpetual screams. No one spoke to her; no one looked at her. There were no kindnesses besides the old woman and the strange, mean-mouthed Myranda, neither of whom Sansa trusted.

And then there was Theon.

Theon, the reason three of her brothers were dead. Theon, who walked her to her new husband at the godswood. Theon, who stood by and cried as she was brutalized on her wedding night. Theon, who quivered at every look, every sound, every thing. Who turned a blind eye to her bruises and bid her to do what Ramsay said.

Ramsay didn’t say much after a while.

He came in and he beat her, held her down as he forced himself into any part of her he pleased. He flayed her where no one would see: her arms, her stomach. He cut her and commented on the red of her blood. He told her of the children she would bear him and what he would do to her when she had finished making him sons.

She didn’t sleep under the cloak anymore. It was too big a risk.

Instead she lay awake, thinking of the night in the moonlit pool, clinging to the memory and smoothing it over her ruined skin like a balm. She would look at the moon and remind herself that it was the same moon she’d been kissed under by a man who’d loved her; for Sandor loved her, she was sure of it. Or he had, once. She would remind herself there was still good in the world: Arya, the Hound. Jon.

It became harder and harder to remember.

And then she escaped.

She cried when Theon left, a strange thing to do after hating him for so long. But he had confessed his lie, told her the truth of Bran and Rickon. And he was all she had now; all that was left of her family, the only part of it she could reach.

The journey to Castle Black with Brienne of Tarth and her squire was strange and long. The whole time, Sansa was sure she’d never they’d never reach it. She had believed in happy endings before but knew now they were farces, lies fed to the hopeless to keep them from starving themselves to death.

But they arrived.

They arrived, and Jon was there, and he was a man. A man grown, handsome as Robb had been, and brave -  _ Lord Commander _ , everyone called him, and he hugged Sansa so hard she was scared she might break apart, all the loosely-stitched pieces of herself split open by the force of his uncomplicated love. There were no motives in his heart but to keep her safe and she thought of the last time she’d known an affection like that and wept, wept every night for the first three nights at Castle Black as she wondered where the Hound was now.

It was Ser Davos of Seaworth who told her.

Arya was alive; the Hound had found her. But Brienne of Tarth had killed him, and that was that.

Sansa had no tears left. She only had snow - all around her, in her heart, filling her up from head to toe. 

When they took back Winterfell, Sansa held a secret burial for the Hound in the godswood. She found a headstone upon which she carved the hound of his house. She whispered to it how she’d destroyed Ramsay, how she wished she’d never sent Sandor away. She whispered to it how she loved him still, and would have loved him forever if she’d been given the chance. She buried the cloak beneath it and pressed her cheek to the coldstone, remembering the growl of his voice, the soft of his mouth. The  _ thudthudthud _ of his heart.

And then the raven came.

It told of a battle beyond the wall - the dragon queen had saved Jon and his men, but lost a dragon in the process. But they were safe now and headed to King’s Landing, and among them Sandor Clegane, mean as ever, ugly as ever, and  _ alive _ .

Sansa had dug up his cloak and held it to her body every night, praying to every god she knew of to bring him back to her.

And by day, she ruled.

She became the Lady of Winterfell. She held a trial for Littlefinger and sentenced him to death, a death carried out by her own sister. The lesser houses deferred decision-making to her; she handled matters within the same hall her father had. Bran sat aside as she ensured every man, woman, and child was fed and safe. She helped arrange battle plans. She helped strategize. She advised the dragon queen and made an enemy of her.

She worked to save the north, and to make her father proud.

When the Long Night came, Sansa knew Sandor was in Winterfell. She knew, but she was kept from him; she asked to see him but the message must have mot made it far. No one would allow her to leave her chambers for too long, everyone skittish about the Dothraki, the Unsullied. The Dragon Queen, who did not hide her disdain for her lover’s eldest sister.

“I just want to see him,” she told Arya, eyes bright with tears as she smoothed a gloved hand over the cloak folded in her lap. “Just once, before.”

Arya did not answer. She and Sansa had never spoken his name aloud, never truly acknowledged what it was Sansa felt for the Hound, the man Arya had confessed she’d left to die. She didn’t need to; Sansa knew Arya loved him too, though not in the same way.

But she couldn’t help Sansa. Not with this.

The crypts had been cold and dark, tomblike already but moreso when crammed with women and children. They were meant to ride it out; they were meant to be safe, as long as Winterfell held. No one had considered the dangers in putting unarmed people in a crypt of corpses with a king who used the dead like puppets.

When the crypt came alive, Sansa had clung to Tyrion Lannister’s hand and accepted death. They had gone and fought, slashed with dragon glass, tried to fight.

And then it had been over.

It was over, and Sansa had lived.

All she wanted to know was who else had lived - her brother, her sister. Her Hound.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Erin, Reiselust, Roraly3, snacklish, vulncrasanentur, SpitFire97, Steampoweredwitch, Stickywhiskers, DarkStar27, LaurelCrown, Veronica, a_lady, Juliawantsbellarke, and Malik for commenting, yall are the reason this thing hasn't been abandoned.
> 
> And to Lady Lenneth who leaves such serious comments dissecting every little thing, and DireWaggle42 who never misses an update. I love yall. I promise I will make up for this.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound finds his heart.

He had seen Winterfell burning, just as he’d seen King’s Landing burn years before.  Except this time, Sandor hadn’t run.

He couldn’t run. Not when everything he cared about was here. Not when he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this time, the little bird would never come with him.

It was chaos in the wake of the Night King’s destruction. There were only corpses and rumors; he heard first that Jon Snow had ended him, lanced him through the face with his Valyrian sword. He’d heard, too, that it had been Theon fucking Greyjoy, the cunt from the Iron Islands sacrificing himself to slaughter the Night King and three White Walkers in the process. 

And then the Hound heard it was Arya - Arya Stark, the strange little sister who had mastered Braavosi training, dropping from a tree and stabbing the Night King with a dagger.

This one, the Hound believed.

“And the crypts,” he asked, heaving a body over his shoulder. “What of the women and children in the crypts?”

Gendry shook his head, face pale. He’d been pale ever since he’d seen the wights piling up on one another to put out the flames.

“Dead, some of them - the bodies in the crypts responded to the Night King’s call, tore some apart.”

The Hound went very still, throat closing up. He tried to breathe but couldn’t. He ground his teeth together.   


“But the little Lord Tyrion is alive, and the Lady Stark - Sansa Stark. And Bran, and the Queen’s advisor…”

Sandor stopped listening. He didn’t care about the others; he could breathe again. Sansa was alive. 

He heaved yet another body onto the pyre, showing an uncharacteristic gentleness as he arranged the man’s limbs, as he took a damp cloth and wiped the gore from his cheek. There was nothing to do for the split of the dead soldier’s skull.

Dawn was breaking, distant and wary, as though unsure the long night had truly ended. By the time it had spread its gray shroud over the sky, the bodies were stacked and the crowd was gathered.

And the Hound saw her.

She was tall - taller than he remembered, taller than he’d expected. She stood as straight as she always had, the perfect lady, dressed in heavier clothes than he’d seen her wear before. The gown was black and regal, emphasizing the slight of her hands, the pale of her skin. Her vivid copper hair was the brightest he’d ever seen it, set against the snow.

She belonged in the north. And gods, he still loved her.

He watched as she approached one of the pyres and wept. A lover, maybe - none of her family had died. He expected to feel jealousy but felt only a strange, heady  _ something _ , thick in his throat like he’d swallowed it. When she turned back to the crowd, he noticed the way her eyes scanned it briefly, so blue and so bright with tears. And then she had her back to him once more, her chin quivering as she watched the bodies go up in flames.

He had sworn to himself that all he wanted was to see the blue of her eyes just once more, to see the red of her hair one last time. But it was a lie. Once he’d seen her, all he wanted to do was see her forever. 

He didn’t glimpse her again until the subdued feast that night, when she sat at the high table beside her brother and drank with her eyes lowered.

His little bird had changed.

He thought of her laughing, happy face, sun-dappled and freckled from their long journey in the woods. He thought of the way she scoffed when his language would embarrass her. He remembered the time she’d thrown a dagger right into his target, how she’d clapped and laughed so boisterously he’d called her a ‘fucking tavern wench.’ He remembered how she’d slept: lips parted, eyelashes fluttering. Cheek pressed to his chest.

Was that girl gone? Would he never know her again?

“Have you seen Arya?”

The Hound met Gendry’s eyes with a glare.

“You can still smell the burning bodies and that’s where your head is at?” he rasped, ignoring the hypocrisy in his words.   
  
“I just want to thank her-”

“I’m sure you do.”

Flustered, Gendry leaned backward, insisting, “Look, it’s not about that -”

“Why shouldn’t it be? The dead are dead. You’re not.”

Gendry said nothing. Satisfied, the Hound took a swig of his drink, trying not to dwell on the truth in his own words. He stole another glance at Sansa; she was still keeping her head down, her eyes surreptitious as they scanned the room. Was she looking for him…?

There was commotion as the dragon queen broke apart the celebrations to make the Baratheon bastard a lord. The Hound didn’t care; he took the opportunity to watch Sansa and to watch her closely, studying the hard mask of her face. She had once been so easy to read and now he knew nothing of her. But he knew her well enough to knew she was not pleased with the foreign queen’s display.

The Hound drank as all around him, the hall dissolved into drunkenness. The Wildlings were loud; the northerners were hardy. The silver queen was calculating. And Sansa, his little bird, was distant, so close and still so far, not meeting his eye, not doing anything but watching, watching…

“This fucker comes over and takes her from me - just takes her, just like that,” Tormund was saying, slapping a hand on the Hound’s shoulder. The Hound, well in his cups now and more dolorous than usual, growled out a warning - “Don’t touch me.”

A girl behind him invited Tormund’s touch. His broken heart seemed quickly mended and the Hound ground his teeth, taking another mouthful of his drink. His eyes drifted back to the high table; the little bird had gone. He wanted to turn to find her, to make sure she was safe in her room, but Tormund was still speaking and there was another girl now batting her eyelashes at  _ him,  _ Sandor, a girl who was nameless and faceless and wanted to fuck glory.

“Are you ready now?” she asked, sultry as anything, and the Hound hated her, viciously, for a failing she couldn’t control. The little bird still wasn’t at the high table

“ _ This _ is my drink,” he said, dragging a pitcher closer. Still, the girl lingered, leaning closer; he growled at her, snapped. She ripped away from him and the Hound turned back to the high table, searching -

“She could’ve made you happy, for a little while.”

His heart stopped for a moment.

When he lifted his eyes it was slow and guarded, as though he hardly dared to believe it could be her. But it was - she was here. She had come to him. He had left her behind and still she had come to him, across time and distance, across a crowded hall, across a whole lifetime lived.

“There’s only one thing that’ll make me happy.”

He couldn’t look at her for too long. There was something in her eyes - something too knowing, something too… much. A small, ugly part of him resented her for it, for changing him the way she had. For making him love her even now.

“And what’s that?” she asked, soft and polite. As though he hadn’t held her every night for a year. As though he hadn’t killed for her, kissed her, kept her in his heart.

“That’s my fucking business,” he snapped, regretting it immediately.

But Sansa smiled.

It was barely there, a barely perceptible thing, but her mouth twitched and her eyes softened and now,  _ now _ , Sandor had had enough. It was the blue of her eyes and the red of her hair and the soft, private shape of her smile - he could die now and it would be alright.

“I thought you died,” she said, voice soft as a secret, her gloves hands folded neatly one on top of the other. Sandor looked at her and looked at her; she was a woman truly, her cheekbones high and fine, her jaw strong. There was no more of childhood lingering in her face. Not even the stars he’d put in her eyes.

“Last night, and before. Months ago. When I heard you died, I… I think something in me died, too. I had a burial for you, at the godswood. I carved a hound on a gravestone and wept until it felt like my whole heart had sunk into the earth.”

The Hound didn’t know why, but he was holding his breath. He stared at Sansa, clinging to every word. Her eyes were bright. She was going to cry. 

“And when I heard you were alive…”

She cut off, closing her eyes and turning her chin. He could see tears shining at her eyelashes. He hardly dared to believe she might still feel what she had once felt for him. She blinked several times before turning to face him again, her cheeks high in color from emotion. Fuck, he had nearly forgotten that about her - how easily she colored, how delicately she blushed.

“I have something for you. I’ve kept it. Will you come to my chambers tonight to receive it?”

“Little bird -” Sandor started, cautious, and Sansa coughed a sound that was something between a sob and a laugh.

“I’ve heard you say that a hundred times in my dreams,” she confessed, smiling through her tears as she brought her gloved fingers up to wipe them away. “I never thought I’d hear you say it again.”

He wanted to pick her up and take her somewhere, anywhere. He wanted to hold her against his chest and press his mouth to the top of her head, to steal her away to some remote, hidden place where no one and nothing could put that hardness back into her eyes.

Instead, he shook his head.

“Your brother, your sister, the fucking queen - this place is crawling with eyes, and your honor’s worth more -”

“My  _ honor _ ,” Sansa repeated, a new, acerbic slash to her voice as she spat the word onto the table. “My  _ honor _ was torn from me by a monster.”

Sandor opened his mouth to speak but Sansa jerked her chin, shaking her head ‘no.’

“All I wished, every day that I was trapped here with him, was that it had been you. That you, at least, had been the first. I could’ve lived with it better, if only you’d been the first.”

“I’m not -” Sandor started, irritable and guilty, heartbroken and furious. But Sansa was not hearing him. Not this time.

  
“Either you’ll come to my chambers tonight, or you won’t. But this will be your choice - I’ve made mine. I’ll not have you make my choice for me, in the name of my ‘honor’ or anything else.”

And she left with a final, lingering glance, leaving Sandor alone with his pitcher of wine and his shredded heart.

But he knew what he would do.

He had tried to save her once by staying away. He would not make that mistake again.

She did not rejoin the high table and he did not stay much longer. He stayed long enough to finish his flagon of wine, and to wonder what it was the little bird could have to give him. When both Jon and the dragon queen had gone, Sandor stood and went in the opposite direction. He didn’t know where her chambers were; he couldn’t remember exactly from the last time he’d visited, when she’d been only a child, but he would find them. He was determined.

Mercifully, this turned out to be easier than expected.

He had only made it up one flight of stairs when he ran into someone else.

“You’re going the wrong way,” Arya said, hands folded behind her back, shoulder leaned against the stone wall.

“The fuck are you talking about?” But she knew. Of course she fucking knew. Her little smirk spoke volumes.

“The other way, up another flight of steps. The last door on the left.”

Sandor glared at her but she only blinked placidly back up at him. In that moment, he was so violently proud of her he was angry at her for it. She seemed to sense it; her smirk only widened, that damned needle strapped to her hip.

“You were the only one that could’ve killed him,” the Hound finally grumbled, turning the other way. “You were the toughest fucker out there. Could’ve killed a dozen Night Kings and all their cunt walkers.”

He could hear the smile in her voice as she told his retreating back, “I wouldn’t tell anyone else where to find her.”

When he reached Sansa’s door, he didn’t hesitate. She pulled it open before he’d finished knocking, standing there in the same regal dress but without the heavy cloak. A fire was hot in the hearth, warming the room; she’d drawn a screen in front of it, as though hiding the flames from view.

_ For me _ , he realized belatedly.  _ Hiding them for me _ .

“Sandor,” she breathed, but this time her cheeks were dry. She just stared at him, looking at him as though he was something lovely, as though she might be content to do nothing but look. Sandor understood; he was doing the same, devouring every detail, new and old, relieved to find that some of her hardness had gone and he could see glimpses of the girl he’d known underneath.

He opened his mouth to tell her something - to say something about Winterfell, or to comment on her brother’s foreign queen. To tell her about Arya. Instead, he rasped out the truth:

  
“I never should have left you. Never. I should have killed them all - every single one of them, every cunt in that fuckawful castle. I should have never left you, little bird, and -” He paused, shaking his head violently, dropping his eyes to the floor and passing a shaking hand over his face. “- And I’m sorry. For all of it.”

Sansa’s arms were around him before he’d even stepped into the room, wrapping around his neck, pulling him down. He stumbled slightly before moving to catch her - until they were wrapped up in each other, his arms at her waist, her arms looped around his neck, her toes barely brushing the ground.

“I sent you away,” she sobbed, voice muffled by his chest. “I sent you away - they threatened you, Baelish threatened you. He knew you were in my room that night and he said the punishment was death - but I should have come with you.”

The Hound knew this should make him furious but he couldn’t feel any emotion so ugly, not when he was holding Sansa Stark in his arms. All he could do was hold her closer, a hand cradling the back of her head as she pressed her cheek into his neck. He stepped inside, still half-carrying Sansa, and groped behind him to close the door before sliding his arm back around her waist.

“I don’t blame you, girl. I never blamed you,” Sandor told her, pressing his cheek to her temple. Sansa’s fingers dug into the leather armor at his back, her cheeks smearing tears across his neck as she shook her head.

  
“And I don’t blame you.”

“I  _ am _ to blame -” Sandor growled, but Sansa cut him off with a sharp, guttural sound, drawing her hands away to wipe at her eyes. He begrudgingly set her back down on her feet and waited as she composed herself. It was cruel to think it, perhaps, but she was always so lovely when she cried.

“Your gift. I asked you here to receive what I made for you - what I was making the day they sent you away.”

She turned and rummaged in a trunk, Sandor left to stare a the spill of red braided hair over her shoulder. When she straightened it was holding a bundle - for a moment he was struck with a memory so intense it was like she was here, too: Sansa at seventeen, clutching a greyed cloak, and Sansa at what must be twenty, holding a bolt of yellow fabric.

But no. It was only one Sansa, and she was proffering the bolt of yellow. He took it wordlessly and shook it out, only to realize with a frisson of violent affection that… it  _ was _ his cloak, but new.

“How -?” he rasped, voice tight with emotion. A dog and a wolf faced off on the cloak, but no hackles were raised. They were woven seamlessly together, beautifully, as though one sigil and not two. As though they belonged together.

“I hid it,” Sansa said softly, watching his face. “When I was with Ramsay, I hid it under a floorboard. And when… when I’d heard you died. I buried it by the godswood. But I came back for it when we received a raven with your name on it, and I’ve kept it ever since. Hoping one day I could give it to you.”

The Hound stared at it a moment longer, his eyes burning, before jerking his face away. He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. When she touched him, he snapped at her to fuck off.

Needless to say, she didn’t listen. Her hand stayed at his elbow until he’d collected himself, the cloak slung over one forearm and pressed to his chest. He’d never in his life received anything so fine. She was talented, yes, but the sheer amount of hours it must have taken to cover the whole cloak in color… He shook his head, mouth twisted, and stared at her delicate fingers resting in the crook of his arm. She had taken off her gloves.

“I told you once I’d be your sworn shield,” he said, still unable to meet her eye. “Told you you can marry a lord, have his babies. I’ll keep my promise. I’ll be your shield and stay in your miserable fucking winter caste, if you’ll have me.”

“Sandor,” Sansa implored. The Hound grunted in response but kept his eyes on her little fingers where they gripped his leather armor. But she wouldn’t be ignored; she repeated his name, more imploring, and then more little fingers were pressing against his jaw, forcing him to meet her eye. She was looking up at him with the same blazing ferocity he’d seen her wear before; regal, like a queen. A northern queen with fire in her hair.

“I’ve been married before. I will not marry again. Not ever.”

“Aye, but what about -”

“I don’t care about children. I don’t care about tradition. I’ve endured hell in the name of tradition, and I won’t go back. I won’t. But wherever I go… Please, come with me.”

Sandor stared into her eyes, feeling helpless and mad and angry and  _ found _ .

_ I love you _ , he thought.

“I offer my services, little bird,” he said, breaking away from her hand to sink down on one knee. He dragged his sword from its sheath and held it up; it shone like something melting in the firelight and he turned his burned face up to Sansa, eyes fierce as they met hers. “I’ll shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by every fucking god there is."

Sansa laughed through fresh tears and stumbled over her reply. 

“- And I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise, Sandor - arise, and stay with me tonight, and every other night.  _ That _ is what I request of you. And this.”

Sandor had not straightened fully when Sansa seized his ruined face and kissed him on his ruined mouth. His sword clattered to the ground as he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her back with all the desperation and despair of so many years without her.

That night, he slept at her back, just as he had so long ago. When he woke, it was to the shocked little screams of her handmaids, who were placated by Sandor’s throwing back the blankets and revealing they were both still fully clothed.

“Fuck’s sake,” he grumbled as he slipped back into his armor, leaving the little bird peering sleepily up at him from her pillow. She was smiling even as the handmaids hurried out of her room, pink-cheeked and scandalized. “If you’re going to have that tittering band of hens clucking about, I won’t be able to stay with you again.”

“They know we didn’t lie together,” Sansa said, stretching against the sheets before curling back up. She was still watching Sandor, naked fondness on her expression. Her heavy black dress emphasized the delicate shade of her skin. “I would’ve bolted the door if we had.”

He stopped midway through pulling his boots back on to eye her with jealous suspicion.

“How many sworn shields have you got?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes. “How many men in your bed?”

Sansa grinned at him.

“My former sworn shield was Brienne of Tarth, who I believe you know. I suppose I should go inform her she’s been relieved of her duty. Unless you’d like the opportunity to catch up with an old friend?”

Sandor swore at her and jammed on his second boot, turning to stomp out of her chambers. The sound of her laugh followed him out of the door and carried him all the way outside, warming him up like sunlight.

The north was cold, he knew, and winters were long. But if he stayed beside Sansa, his little sunlit bird, he’d never feel anything but warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to starrynightshade, Yetis_girl, Veronica, a_lady, CalindaCat, JJ1125, baileyblueroan and einzell for commenting!
> 
> And thank you to DireWaggle42 for loving it from start to (almost) finish.
> 
> Only a few chapters left... it was going to be 24 but I just needed a LITTLE bit more!


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reigns.

Sansa had left for King’s Landing a lady and returned a queen.

She was not the only one whose fortune had changed overnight - Yara Greyjoy ruled as queen of the Iron Islands. Dorne’s prince became its king. And Jon Snow sat on the Iron Throne, the heir to it, the savior of Westeros.

He did not want to be known as Aegon Targaryen. They called him ‘King Jon, First of His Name.’ He wore all black in mourning for his silver-haired lover, and as penance for what he’d done.

But Sansa did not weep for the dragon queen, and neither did the north.

She rode back across Westeros with the Hound at her side, saying very little. She had left one sworn shield behind, broken of her oath; Brienne of Tarth stayed behind in King’s Landing, as did Jaime Lannister. There had been no trial for the murder of his sister, Cersei Lannister, the bringer of so much ruin, killed by her twin and former lover.

“The man with one hand,” she was rumored to have spat, mocking and cruel. He had only needed one hand to strangle her.

Sansa and the Hound did not sleep close on the road. They sat near one another at meals and he stayed nearby her litter, but she was wary of her reception at home, how they would respond to a queen instead of a king. It would not help their perception of her if she crushed every tradition beneath her heel like Daenerys Targaryen had done.

But she needn’t have worried.

When she arrived home, the ravens had preceded her.

“Your Grace!” they cried out.

“Queen Sansa!” they called.

“A Stark queen!”

And as she sank into the wood-hewn throne, direwolves sentinel at her back and a silver circlet upon her head, they chanted it:

“The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North!”

She saw him in the crowd, dark hair covering the burns on his face. He had not drawn his sword; he was not chanting with them. But he was looking at her with eyes as bright and blazing as dragonfire, his expression split open with naked adoration.

She nodded at him and he tipped his chin in silent acknowledgment.

It was almost a perfect moment - almost. But there were those who were missing.

That night, she went down to see them.

The crypts had been put back together by loving hands. The wights had destroyed the statue of her father and for that she was grateful; it had looked nothing like him, had captured none of his rugged handsomeness or kind eyes.

She lit his candle first and pulled off her gloves.

“I miss you, father,” she whispered, pressing her bare palm to the cold stone. His tomb and the others of her family had stayed unbroken; she was grateful for it, so grateful. To see them undead and rotting would have haunted her dreams until she joined them in their tombs.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I should have never asked you to leave Winterfell… I should have never written that letter.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering. Sometimes if she tried hard enough, she could recall the faint imprint of his laugh… But it did not find her here tonight, and she stepped to the crypt beside.

“And Robb… Oh, Robb. You were always so honorable, weren’t you? Just like father. I wish… I wish I could’ve known your wife, and your son. I hope you’re together. I miss you.”

Her eyes burned but no tears came. Not even as she dragged her fingertips over Rickon’s name, doing her best not to remember him riddled with arrows.

“I killed him,” she whispered. “I killed Ramsay for what he did to you. I’m sorry, Rickon - you were only a baby when I knew you. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

The last tomb was the one she’d been avoiding ever since she’d come home. She’d never spoken to her; never visited her. She wasn’t even sure if Catelyn’s body was _in_ the tomb. She’d been too afraid to ask.

“Mother,” she whispered, tears threatening but not falling as she pressed her forehead to the cold stone. “Mother, I miss you. I have so many questions, about everything. How to be a good queen, how to be a good person. You always knew the answers.”

The flames flickered around her and Sansa exhaled a slow, shuddering breath.

“They want me to marry. My advisors - Maester Wolkan, and little Lyanna Mormont, and Ser Davos. They want me to marry a northern lord but I can’t.”

“Of course you can’t.”

Sansa startled at the voice, hastily ducking her head to wipe unshed tears from her eyes.

“Arya - what are you doing down here?”

“Looking for you,” Arya said, pausing before adding with a little smirk, “your _grace_.”

Sansa colored but smiled back, shaking her head.

“Don’t _you_ call me that. Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your journey west?”

Arya shrugged. Her sword gleamed at her hip, ever-present.

“This is part of getting ready. I have to counsel my queen before I go. These lot won’t give you many answers,” she said, nodding towards the tombs. Sansa gave her a reproachful look and Arya grinned, adding, “Though I bet they wish they could. I bet it’s killing Robb, not having the last word.”

Sansa laughed and Arya laughed with her and for a moment, a flickering, shining moment, it was as if they were all here - the whole of the family, safe and together, at Winterfell. Where they belonged.

Sansa’s smile faded and Arya’s did too, the pair of them looking at each other as though loathe to stop.

“I know you have to go, but I selfishly wish you’d say here,” Sansa said, soft as a confession. Arya smiled.

“I know. But you don’t need me - you were born for this. You’re the cleverest person I know. You outwitted a dragon queen.”

Sansa shook her head, mouth thinning with emotion.

“I don’t know the answers this time. It’s my life they want to alter. I’ve been married and it was horrible. They want me to bear children, to carry on the name, but after what he did to me… After the Boltons, I _can’t_. And I’m -“

“And you’re in love,” Arya finished, surprising Sansa into a blush.

“Arya! I’m not in-“

“Yes, you are. You're in love with the Hound. You have been for years. And he loves you, too,” Arya said calmly, as though relaying uninteresting common knowledge. Perhaps that’s just what it was.

Sansa shook her head, despairing.

“Even if I was, I don’t want to marry. I don’t want it, any of it, not again -“

“So don’t,” Arya said, beginning to sound impatient. “Lords have bastards all the time, and you’re a queen. Being a bastard isn’t want it once was. If you want heirs, make some. If you don’t, don’t. But Sansa -“

She stepped forward, her expression suddenly fervid. It gave the impression of great height despite her small stature.

“Sansa, we’ve suffered _enough_ . We’ve had happiness torn from us again and again. You’re queen now, the queen of all the north. Your brother is king of the rest. It’s time to be happy, time for all of us. If the Hound makes you happy… Take it. Take that happiness. And to _hell_ with what they want. It’s time to do what _you_ want.”

Sansa stared at her sister, biting the inside of her cheek.

“How did you grow up so fierce?” she finally whispered, wiping at her eyes again.

“I got it from mother,” Arya answered, smiling just a little. “Same as you.”

When Sansa hugged her sister, it was with her family at her back, their candles throwing light and warmth over the Stark girls.

That night, Sansa held a small council meeting. The Hound was there; he was always there. He stood at the door, her shield.

When she sat, the room turned to her expectantly. All but the Hound who watched the door.

“I’ve gathered you to give you answers,” Sansa said, meeting everyone’s eye in turn. “You’re on my council because I admire you and I respect you, and because I need you. All of you.”

Her gaze drifted to Samwell Tarly, who would be leaving for King’s Landing in the coming week. He offered her a small smile. Arya, at the end of the table, listened and waited. Sansa took in a steadying breath.

“I will not be marrying a lord. I will not be marrying anyone.”

Maester Wolkan looked down, his mouth downturned. Ser Davos’ brow furrowed. Lyanna’s expression remained unchanged.

“I understand your concern about heirs. And I may never give you heirs.”

A ripple of unease went around the table. The Hound glanced at her from his post, his lips a thin, unreadable line.

“But I am not the only Stark, and I’m not saying never. Nor do I intend to be alone.”

Samwell frowned at her, confused. Ser Davos scratched his head.

“My lady - beggin’ your pardon, your _grace_ is what I meant - there is, of course, precedent with queens taking lovers. But if we could implore you to make a political match with a northern lord -“

“No.” It was Arya who spoke, not Sansa. There was something distinctly smug and sororal in her smirk. “Sansa only wants one man. And he’s not who you want as your _prince_.”

The Hound glanced over again and startled at the sight of Arya smirking at him - Arya and a few other sets of eyes. He glowered.

“Don’t fucking smirk at me,” he growled. Maester Wolkan made a noise like a scold, then coughed to cover it up. Arya only smirked wider.

“I didn’t ask you here to speculate,” Sansa said, voice rising with authority. “I only wanted to put an end to conversations about matches, political or otherwise. We have more important things to discuss than royal weddings. Hundreds of northerners were left widowed or orphaned by the Long Night, and we must -”

“Your grace,” interrupted Ser Davos, looking faintly pained. “If I may -”

“No, she’s right,” Lyanna Mormont suddenly cut in, her voice as clear and forceful as ever. “If my queen does not want to marry, she shan’t marry. I don’t care who she beds as long as she protects the north and takes care of its people. And Sansa Stark has never done anything but protect the north. If she dies without heirs, perhaps Arya will take up the mantle of queen, or Bran, or any children they might have. And if she has bastards -”

Here, Lyanna Mormont shrugged, and pounded a fist against the table.

“Then they’ll have Stark blood all the same.”

“Aye,” said Arya, turning to Samwell. He looked cowed but hurried to echo her, giving a stammering, ‘aye’ of his own. Maester Wolkan was next; he nodded and gave an ‘aye.’ Ser Davos heaved a sigh before speaking.

“Your grace, I meant no disrespect. Where I come from, the surest way to keep peace was for highborns to marry one another. I think of what I’ve heard of the fragmented north and I wanted to keep it from fragmenting again. I confess I come at this with a mind of strategy, not a mind of love, or of happiness. You’ll learn quickly I’m still learning at being an advisor, even so many years in.”

Sansa’s expression softened and she opened her mouth to speak, but Ser Davos shook his head.

“If you don’t want to marry, you shouldn’t marry. I’d not wish upon you one more second of suffering. Nor on anyone in this room.”

His eyes flickered, however briefly, to the Hound. The Hound who was looking pointedly away from them all.

“But I would suggest… if I may, your grace. We need a Master of Military. And forgive me for saying it, but your sworn shield’s no spring chicken. He might like a chair.” Davos ignored the Hound’s scathing glare. “I say ‘aye’ to your autonomy, and I say ‘aye’ to you naming Sandor Clegane as Master of Military.”

This time, the agreement was unanimous; ‘aye’s rippled around the table as Sansa stared at the Hound. He turned to them, scowling, his eyes landing on Davos.

“Had enough fighting for one lifetime,” he rasped. “Don’t want to fight anymore.”

“No,” Davos agreed, drawing the empty chair beside himself. “But you do want to sit. And there is no war, only a peace to keep. Not to mention your queen seems to hold you in rather high regard. If it pleases you, your grace, to expand the small council by one?”

There were suddenly six faces turned to her, all expectant. All but one. The Hound looked torn. She thought of what he’d told her in the Eyrie, back before it all -

 _Enough,_ he’d said, hands around her wrists. _You can’t start dreaming of a different future. You’re to marry a lord, get the life you’ve always wanted._ And before that, in the forest - he’d asked her if she’d choose him, even with all the world’s choices laid out at her feet. He’d scoffed at the thought.

But things had changed. They had survived. She was home, and she was Queen.

And she could dream of any future she wanted.

“Take a seat, Sandor,” she said.

The Hound’s sword clinked at his side as he settled into his seat, his expression closed and mean as ever as he stared at his Queen. But Sansa knew. She could see it now, what had always been there but what had been so hard to read; she could see his adoration for her, the only fire he wasn’t scared of, burning in the dark of his eyes.

He loved her, just as she loved him.

And _that_ was enough.

 

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was very obviously my fix-it chapter since I, like so many others, loathed the wrap-up of the finale. So now Yara's got the Salt Throne over some independent islands, Jon rules over Westeros, and Sandor Clegane is very alive. Lyanna's also alive because fuck you, I say she is. Also, Jaime murdered Cersei and off-screen is basically becoming Lord of Tarth. I'M HAPPY.
> 
> Anyway, as always - thank you to wvie, a_lady, Steampoweredwitch, vulncrasanentur, daphne_minor, Juliawantsbellarke, baileyblueroan, Roraly3, Suchahag, entwinedwedream, DarkStar27, starrynightshade, JMBH, CalindaCat, Alice, Veronica, Reiselust, and Erin for taking the time to leave comments! Yall are the reason this story exists. Writing in a vacuum is no fun, and yall made this fun from start to end.
> 
> And to DireWaggle42, who'll come back to me with words, and Lady Lenneth, who's now my friend. I love yall.
> 
> This is technically the end of it, but if yall want some pandering fanservice I have one more chapter for you! An epilogue, really.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound is happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're satisfied with the ending from last chapter, I'd say don't read ahead. This is just epilogue-y stuff.

_A Hound’s Epilogue_

 

He had never known there was so much joy in the world.

He’d seen it before, in other people’s happiness. He’d even felt his own once, back when he was a child. Before the pox that was his brother had stripped everything away from him - his father, his sister. His innocence.

Hate had been his reason for living all of his life. He’d clung to it, right up until he’d looked into the ugly eyes of the Qyburn-ruined Mountain and realized Gregor Clegane was dead.

And then Sansa had been his reason for living.

She had been for far longer, though he hadn’t wanted to admit it - not to her, or himself. It was dangerous to love such a beautiful thing, since beautiful things didn’t settle in hands like his. Hands stained red with blood, scarred from battle. Hands rough and calloused from manual labor, hands that could (and had) split bones in two.

But his beautiful little bird had landed in his outstretched palms.

There were still pockmarks of sadness, echoes of the lives they lived before the peacetimes. But even those were tinged with sweetness, existing at the corner bitter and sweet. The first time he knew her body was one such time.

It had been the night he’d been invited to the small council.

He knew why they’d done it. They didn’t need his advice; they didn’t need a Master of Military. The north’s forces had diminished; whatever military there was was small and crippled, recuperating for a generation.

But by inviting him in, they were accepting their queen. She had not hidden her affection for him well, if at all, and they had made it clear they would not punish her for it. He was given a seat at their table and nothing more was said of marriages or alliances, or of the strangeness of a woman like Sansa Stark choosing a hound like _him_.

He followed her out of the room just as he always did, watching the way she laughed and smiled with her sister. It was still strange to see them together, two studies in opposites though somehow so similar. When he’d spent all those months with Arya, he’d searched for signs of Sansa in her, but the little killer seemed determined to be anything but.

Now, seeing her beside Sansa, she had softened. She touched Sansa’s elbow with the carelessness of familial affection; she laughed easily at Sansa’s quips. Once Sandor had even seen her sitting still, letting Sansa braid her dark hair.

But it was nothing to how Sansa was.

Sandor had seen her happy once, back when she was on the cusp of womanhood. She’d been happy with him, in the forest; she’d laughed and played and sang and sighed, daydreamed and longed. But it had all been blackened with something else, charred just at the edges.

It was nothing to the radiance with which she smiled now, the bright blue of her eyes and the confidence in her gait as she led him through the stone corridors of her home.

Of his home, now.

“Sandor,” she said. Arya glanced over her shoulder at him and he scowled at her.

“Don’t know how this worked out,” Arya said, shaking her head. “How I ended up bedding a lord and you’re bedding a hound.”

“ _Arya_!” Sansa said, color rising in her cheeks. She tried to swat her sister on the arm but Arya was too quick; she ducked and turned, flashing them both an impish grin before disappearing down a hallway. Leaving Sansa and Sandor, alone, for what felt like the first time in weeks.

“I’d apologize for her but I know I don’t have to.  You probably like her foul mouth,” Sansa said, shaking her head. She was walking again and the Hound followed, a smile threatening at the corners of his eyes.

“Aye,” he confessed, taking the stairs behind her. “Didn’t like anyone before I met you. Certainly didn’t expect to end up liking _two_ Stark girls, for fuck’s sake. Your mother must’ve been some woman, to whelp you both.”

Sansa’s answering smile was bright enough to make the Hound smile, too. A rare sight.

“You would’ve liked her, too,” Sansa said, stopping at her bedroom door. “I wish you could’ve met her. I wish you could’ve met all of them.” She twisted the knob and pushed inside, only to stand with the door open, clearly indicating Sandor should come too.

He hesitated.

“Don’t make me ask,” Sansa said, exasperation betraying her nerves. “You heard them down there, they don’t care -”

Sandor stepped inside but there was something strained in his movements, a tension in them that stiffened his joints. Sansa frowned at him, fidgeting with her hands.

“Unless you don’t want to, of course,” she said, trying to smile but the sudden sadness in her eyes undid it.

“What you told them,” Sandor said, beginning to strip away his swords. He rested them against the wall one by one. “About marriage and… family.”

Sansa’s expression drew inward, like a window drawing its curtains. Her hands stilled.

“I’ve made my decision, and -” she began, voice hard with authority. Sandor cut her off.

“Don’t talk to me like that here,” he snarled, shrugging out of his leather armor. “Not unless you want me to call you _your grace_ and start bowing and scraping every time you use your bloody chamber pot.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open and made a neat little ‘o’ of surprise. Sandor took a private pleasure in it; he didn’t know he could still shock the little bird.  
  
“I won’t tell you what to do. You’ve made your decision and you’re my Queen. I just… I want you to be sure. Because if you take me as your whatever-the-fuck-I-am, then you might not get many offers from your northern lords. Not anymore. They’ll forgive you for Bolton because it wasn’t your choice. But lying with a dog when you have other prospects…”

Sandor shrugged as he stepped out of his boots, suddenly unable to meet her eye. He wasn’t sorry he’d said it; he knew it was true. He needed her to hear it. … But what if she agreed with him?

“You’re such an idiot.”

He looked up, brow creasing with irritation. But before he could open his mouth to speak, Sansa was at his front, yanking him down by the collar and pressing her mouth to his. He had kissed her not too long ago; they’d stolen moments here and there, kissed and pawed at one another like bloody teenagers. But it hadn’t been like _this_.

He growled into her mouth and slid his arms around her waist, drawing her in close. He felt more than heard the little gasp she made against his lips, knew that he’d accidentally swept her feet off the ground.

 _Good_ , he thought distantly. _Good. She needn’t ever walk again. I’ll keep her in my arms, always._

“Bed,” he mumbled against her mouth, walking them to it. They spilled onto it together, Sansa beneath him, Sandor atop her, their hands and mouths roving. He opened her mouth with his, sucked on her tongue, made a soft line of kisses along her jaw. He grazed his teeth against her throat until she moaned. He sifted his fingers through her hair just as he always did, stealing glimpses of the brilliant red sliding across his palms.

It was when he was mouthing at her nipple through her dress that she said something new, something that took him aback:

“Undress me,” she breathed. His mouth slowed to a halt.

“Sandor, please - I want it. I want this. I want _you_.”

He thought with a sickening lurch of every horrible thing he’d heard about Sansa’s time with the Boltons. How the bastard had bled her, raped her, sodomized her. How he’d done everything within his power to make it hurt; how he’d etched trauma into her bones and relished in it.

He lifted his chin and met her eyes only to see they were bright with tears. Her cheeks were dry.

“Don’t think about it,” she whispered, as though his thoughts were written on his face. “Please - I don’t want to think about it anymore. He’s dead. He’s _dead_. I want him dead for good, I want him gone from me.”

Sandor had heard she’d killed him. He’d always wondered. Despite himself, despite it all, he croaked,

“How?”

He was not clear but she seemed to understand him all the same. A flash of something cruel and strange flitted across Sansa’s eyes, the ghost of a smile twitching her lips. She looked like a queen, even rumpled in the bedsheets - a great and terrible beauty.

“Hounds,” she whispered. Sandor exhaled a breath he’d been holding and smiled. She smiled, too.

“I don’t want to marry. But I want to be yours. _Yours_. Like man and wife. I want to know what it’s like, that kind of love.”

Love.

She’d hinted at such a thing once, a long time ago. Sandor had never said it but had known for years, as surely as his own name, how deeply he loved Sansa Stark. And looking at her now, her hair fanned out like a halo of fire, her blue eyes pale in the moonlight and her lips kissed red by his own… He loved her so much that it felt as though he’d torn his heart out and pressed it, still beating and bloody, into her lovely, waiting hands.

He swallowed.

“I can give you that,” he said, voice gravelled and rough.

She stood at the side of the bed so he could better help her undress.

Her gown had eyelets and hooks, and her corset many more. It took long, slow minutes to free her from them all, and during which, neither spoke. Sansa held her spill of beautiful hair high up, revealing her delicate neck, as Sandor worked.

When he finished, the dress and corset fell to the floor in a puddle of heavy fabric. Sansa stood, her back to him, in just a thin shift. There was something pearly and light littering her arms, the backs of her thighs - before he could investigate she turned, her arms crossed over her chest. Her expression was apprehensive.

“I don’t… I don’t look the same,” she said, whisper-soft. Shame had joined the unshed tears in her eyes but she held her chin high, as though determined to blot it out. Sandor stared up at her from where he sat on the bed.

“My body - it’s different. I have scars, some worse than others. I don’t want to talk about them. I just… I just wanted to let you know. Before you saw them.”

“Sansa,” Sandor rasped, voice thick and weighted down by adulation. “ _Sansa_.”

“I used to hate them,” Sansa confessed, still quiet as she reached down to take the edge of her shift in her hands. “But then I felt them, and - and they reminded me of you.”

He remembered it with a frisson of something warm and soul-deep. Little fingers making paths over the ruined part of his face, so light on the mottled scar tissue he hardly felt it at all. Violence surged up to his fingertips and he wanted to break something; he wanted to cut down Ramsay Bolton all over again, to flay _him_ living, to cleave every Bolton and Umber and Karstark in two…

When Sansa stripped away her shift and stood naked before him, every brutal thought left his mind.

All he could think of was that Ray had been wrong; there must be no gods. Because this was not justice. He could crawl for miles over broken glass just to see Sansa Stark naked again, eyes blazing with hard-won power and assurance, and still not have paid enough penance to earn it.

But he was not fool enough to question it.

He slid from the bed onto his knees, bringing his hands up to Sansa’s hips. He pulled her close, his mouth level with her navel, and turned his face up to hers.

“My little bird,” he exhaled, holding her gaze. She was staring down at him with eyes so sweet and open they both broke and mended his heart at once. “My sweet little bird.”

He kissed her first on the largest scar, a path of raised skin from hip to navel. Then he kissed her along the others, every tiny little mark, every new patch of skin. He was careful not to miss a single one, gentle with his hands as he eased her thighs apart to kiss the scars in between, slow-moving so as not to startle her as he kissed along her ribs, to her back, down to the backs of her thighs.

And then, just because he could and because he’d always wanted to, he laid her on her stomach and kissed every vertebrae, every delicate knob of her spine.

By the time he’d kissed her everywhere, her body was flushed and warm in his hands, her eyes dry and her pupils blown.

“Sandor,” she whispered, turning onto her back and reaching for him in the blue dark.

“I love you,” he growled, overtaking her gasp of surprise with a kiss.

They kissed and she stripped him, tugging at his tunic, his breeches. She made him as naked as she was and his hands wandered, slow and cautious as he listened to her cues.

She moved her hips up to meet his fingers; he slid them against her just as he had before, careful, gentle. He slipped his thumb against her clit until her body shivered against his, and then he brought his mouth down to finish. She pressed her thighs to his ears; she pulled at his hair. She ground against his mouth just as she had so many years before and then she was calling out his name, moaning it, pleading -

“You’re alright,” he murmured, moving back up the bed to cover her body with his. “You’re alright, little bird. You’re safe.”

Sansa stared up at him, flushed and undone. The queen of the north; the queen of his everything.

“I know,” she whispered back, and pressed her small, hot hands to the small of his back.

He very nearly hesitated, asked if she was certain. But there was a hard blaze in her eyes that reminded him she was no longer a girl, nor was she a broken thing - not here in this bed. So he didn’t ask. He just listened.

He rolled his hips slowly, biting down hard on his back molars as he sheathed himself in the gorgeous heat of her cunt. She had gone tense, her fingernails ten little pain points at his back, and he stopped.  
  
“Sansa -”

“No,” she exhaled, shaking her head as her body relaxed again. “No, please - say it again.”

This time he did hesitate, his heart already so raw, already pinned to his sleeve like a carnal offering. But she had asked, and she was beautiful, and he’d say it a hundred times to see the pain dissipate from the blue of her eyes.

“I love you,” he rasped, and she brought her hips to his, taking him in further. He groaned.

“I love you,” he repeated, and she began to rock against him, gentle and shallow, her breathing coming out staccato and silky. “I love - _fuck_. I love you - I love you.”

“Show me,” Sansa whispered, and Sandor fell apart.

He was careful not to hurt her as he moved his body against hers, their chests pressed together, their legs tangled. She opened her mouth to his and let him kiss her breathless; then, once she’d caught her breath, let him kiss her some more. Her hands slipped and clung against the broad muscles of his back; his mouth traveled from hers downward, making a searing path over her delicate collarbones, down to her pink nipples. And all the while he moved within her, his hips a slow, steady rhythm, her soft thighs pressed to his hips. Until it wasn’t her gasp but his sharp intake of breath; until pleasure whited out his mind and stroked down his spine like melting honey, pooling low in his gut.

In the wake of his release, he tucked Sansa into his side and held her close. She said nothing; her hands clung to him, her face pressed into his front. Her shoulders shook as she cried into the dark hair of his chest. He asked no questions and made no comments. He simply held her well into the night, until the hidden fire in the hearth had burned itself low and Sansa’s tears had carried her into sleep.

It was then, when she was asleep, that the Hound dampened her lovely hair with a few tears of his own. Tears of joy and disbelief and fear - fear that it would somehow be taken away, that he would have to fight to keep this, too.

But he didn’t.

Moons passed.

The great blue ball of the giant’s eye turned, and seasons melted into one another. He had thought Sansa made for winter, but she was just as lovely in the spring, just as vivid in the summer. Her hair burned like copper in the autumn, set against all those orange and red leaves.

And then, somehow, it was two autumns since he’d come to Winterfell. And then it was three.

By the fourth autumn, he fell in love with another - a pink-cheeked, ginger baby, a bastard of the north whose name was Snow. His daughter, and Sansa’s daughter, and the second most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“We’ve got to name her,” Sansa told him gently, sweeping some weirwood leaves away from the heart tree’s roots. Its wooden face watched over them, silent as ever.

“Don’t know what to call her,” Sandor grunted, staring at the baby in his hands. He was always nervous to hold her; she was so small, so breakable. He’d thought it had been nerve-wracking when Sansa had been carrying her for the last nine months, but somehow this was even moreso.

“Mira is pretty,” Sansa said thoughtfully, as she smudged away something from the trunk of the tree with her cloak. “Like Howland’s daughter, the one who saved Bran. Or Margaret.”

Sandor huffed a noise of acknowledgment. None of the names were right; none of them fit the impossible baby in his hands, the one whose head was somehow smaller than his palm. He had very nearly said a prayer of thanks when she’d been born with her mother’s beautiful red hair; very nearly, until he’d remembered he didn’t believe in the gods.

“... Or Catelyn, I suppose, though I don’t know if it feels right, to do that so soon,” Sansa continued, her boots making _shh_ sounds as she walked through dried leaves.

Sandor watched the baby yawn, her tiny, pink mouth opening as she stretched and then resettled. When her eyes cracked open, the dark, infant-gray irises found his. She blinked at him, placid and trusting, and he bit down so hard on his teeth that his jaw ached.

“... But I suppose there’s no rush. Maester Wolkan says -”

“My sister,” Sandor mumbled, his eyes still fixated on the baby - on his daughter. His, and Sansa’s. An impossible creature. A miracle they’d made. A gift he’d been given for some reason he’d never understand.

Beside the heart tree, Sansa had gone very still. He knew why; he never spoke of his sister. The one time Sansa had asked, he’d snarled at her, nasty as ever, and told her to fuck right off. Her response was to bar her door to him for a week, deservedly so.

“What?” she asked, careful not to sound overly interested. Sandor glanced up.

“My sister. I’d like to name her after my sister. If… If you like the name.”

Sansa’s face softened and her smile was bright and sweet as a winter peach. It mystified him sometimes, how she retained her beauty as the years passed while he only got older and uglier. How she still fell into bed with him, time after time. How she loved him as fiercely as she did when he’d once known himself to be unlovable.

“Will it pair well with Stark?” Sansa asked, heeled boots crunching across the leaves as she crossed to him.

Sandor frowned.

“She’s a Snow,” he reminded her, turning once more to stare at the baby. She was dwarfed by the bundles of blankets; dwarfed even further by his massive body.

“And I’m the Queen. She’ll be a Stark soon enough.”

Sandor looked back up to his queen - the woman he loved, the woman he’d always loved - and found himself smiling.

“Aye, girl. It’ll pair well with Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY CRAP I DID IT! Thank you to ALL of you, especially YOU reading this right now. This fic took up a solid two weeks of my life and I have not a single regret. I wish I could write 50k of publishable novel fiction in two weeks but c'est la vie - it's much easier to play with someone else's toys than to create your own.
> 
> To DireWaggle42 & Lady Lenneth, who made it worthwhile with their attention to detail: thank you.
> 
> To everyone who commented, especially those of yall (Saoirse97 & stickywhiskers) who were with me from the very start, thank you for giving me the push to finish this. It's so validating and so wonderful to have yalls support.
> 
> And, if anyone was curious, the title comes from one of my favorite bands and favorite songs of all time, ALL NIGHT by Pure Bathing Culture. It is such a Sansa/Sandor song. 
> 
> I love you, thank you, and if you ever have any ideas or would like more drabbles in this 'verse - with Sansa and Sandor in Winterfell, or with them in the forest or at the Eyrie - let me know here or on tumblr! On tumblr I'm threewickfic. 
> 
> Xoxox

**Author's Note:**

> I’m slowly making my way through the books so all of this is based on TV-show canon. If you read it, thank you!


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